


Glorious Echeladder Ascension Technique

by Ryumaru



Category: Exalted, Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Explicit Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 103,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryumaru/pseuds/Ryumaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a rush, and that was it.<br/>The Game was Over.<br/>And that should have been the end of it. But the decrees of Fate are not so simple as a quiet victory and a trip home.<br/>Or, rather, “home” was not where it was expected to be.</p>
<p>An Exalted and Homestuck crossover/fusion fic, written so that fans who don't know Exalted can enjoy as well. Tags and Archive Warnings will be updated as the fic progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yellow Path

Once, there was a maiden who played a game.  
She and her friends struggled through many trials.  
They found death  
And they found victory  
They won the game at a great cost  
And found the reward was not what they thought it was  
“A game is part of a greater game,” she said. 

 

John felt a rush - wind, life, light, all flashing past him. He could see nothing, hear nothing, but the sensation whipped through him.

Eternity always takes forever, he thought. I hope it’s not too much longer.

They _had_ won, hadn’t they? Finally finished their glitched, broken, terrible session of Sburb? Earned The Prize? He was supposed to be home.

John missed his dad, cakes and all. 

Suddenly, the rushing intensified, as though he were falling.

WHAM

Stone. 

John blinked. He hadn’t _hit_ anything. He hadn’t been falling. At least he hadn’t been _technically_ falling. Probably. But here he was, lying on his back on some stone. 

The first thing he thought about was how bright the sun, directly overhead, was. 

The second thing he thought about was that it was quite cold. Frosty, even.

The third thing he thought about was how people seemed to be shouting. They sounded kind of far away, though. 

Stiffly, as though his muscles weren’t properly working yet, he rolled over. Oh, he thought, there’s a ledge there. And all of those people, he realized as his eyes began to open. 

“Um, hi!” he called down to them. Wind whistled past, and he realized just how high up this ledge was. After a moment of thought, he added, “Can someone help me get down?”

 

Rose could hear waves. 

This was peculiar, considering that by the rules of the game she should, by all means, be home, in that big empty house in the middle of the woods. 

Taking a deep breath to steel her still-frayed nerves, Rose kept her eyes closed until she felt ready to face whatever new problems had arisen. 

She really should have expected better than to have a plain, simple victory. 

 

Dave coughed and spat hot sand. 

Fuck, he thought. More glitchy bullshit. Stupid game must have gotten some code mixed up or some shit and filled his and Bro’s apartment with sand. Or maybe-

Ugh. Who was he trying to kid? This had to be something else. 

Not even bothering to take stock of his situation, Dave gritted his teeth and pushed himself up. Time to get moving. This shit wasn’t going to fix itself.

 

Jade could hear birds. Not the kind of birds she used to hear on the island, which worried her, but at least it was something familiar. And these were songbirds, unlike the hummingbirds which had populated her Land. So there was that.

The second thing she noticed was that she was upside-down. Her ears twitched - her doggy ears, not her human ones - and she realized that she still had those doggy ears. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. 

The third thing she noticed was that she was in a tree. A very tall tree. This would be rather awkward to get down from. 

 

In the lands of the dead, a grin split a painted face, as understanding dawned.

 

A busy trade city saw a gray-skinned figure leaning over one of much more human complexion, sniffing the air. 

“Interesting.” 

The statement accompanied a shark-like grin. 

 

A world of machines was greeted by a window shattering, and a Champion being thrown through a window by a very, very disgruntled troll. 

 

And in another realm, lit by a sickly green light, one troll picked himself up off the ground, looked around, and screamed “FUCK!”

==> John: Get used to your new surroundings

The people who had helped John down were very friendly! They were also heavily-armored and carrying spears, but at least they were friendly. Most of them spoke a language that he didn’t understand, but some of the words were in English or sounded English-like. They’d taken him into a clean, but rather severe room in a clean, but rather severe building, somewhere near the edge of the city, near the walls. He’d been sat down and made to run his hands through a bowl of salt and to pick up an iron cube. He’d tried to do a magic trick with it - make it disappear - but they hadn’t cared for that much. There wasn’t much to do after that besides sit around. He wished he had a yo-yo or a book or something to keep himself occupied. He settled for letting his thoughts wander.

Eventually, he found himself wondering what had changed. His memories stretched back to just before the game ended, and a few moments of the final battle - flashes and glimpses, mostly - but there was absolutely nothing until he had “landed” on the roof. Still, it could be worse, right?

Right?

John received no answer to his question, as the guards chose that exact moment to enter the room, startling him. One of them, a tall woman with short, thoroughly-brushed hair and her helmet under her arm, sat across from him. Two other guards stood by the door, keeping it guarded. It was their job, after all. The woman gave him a piercing stare before asking him a question in the same weird, thick, breathy language that the guards had been using. 

“Um… excuse me?”

The woman frowned slightly, as though she were ticking something off on a mental checklist. She asked him another question, this time in a language that sounded vaguely like Chinese, if it were filtered through ancient Greek. 

“I, uh, don’t speak Chinese. I think.”

“You speak Riverspeak?”

“Yes! That! Those are words I understand!”

“Good. No Skytongue, so you are not from around here. No Low Realm, so you are not from Empire. So, boy… where have you come from then?”

“Um… Washington. Seattle. I mean Seattle, Washington. Originally. But I mean there’s been a lot of things happening and I’ve been in the Land of Wind and Shade for most of it but there’s also the dream bubbles and the ship and… um.” He had noticed the look the woman was giving him. “I’ll stop talking now.”

“Yes. Might be good. Meanwhile.” She turned to the other two guards and issued a command in the first language - Skytongue, he assumed. One of them left. “He will check maps for where you have named. Now. You are still clearly foreign to Whitewall. Salt did not hurt you, so you are not dead. Iron did not hurt you, so you are not fae. Human, then. But that leaves many possibilities. I am wondering how you got onto Central Temple’s roof.”

“Oh, is that what the building is called? I’m glad you guys helped me get down, by the way, thank you, but it’s-” He stopped. The full implications of “Central Temple” had just hit him. “Um. I didn’t, um, do anything blasphemous, right? I mean I didn’t mean to be on top of the temple or anything.”

“Only blasphemy if Syndics are offended. Nobody has climbed Central Temple that high before, especially to sleep. So, Syndics may even be amused.”

“And… the Syndics are the people in charge?”

“Not people. Gods.” She said this very matter-of-factly, as if she were saying they were politicians or belonged to a certain religion.

“Gods?” More people that had gone God-Tier? But the entire game had been over, everyone had “won” at the same time. Was this another session, somehow?

“Yes. You are confused? Must be from Nexus.”

“I’ve never even heard of Nexus!”

“Hm. Either you are very, very strange or you are lying.” She smiled a very wolfish smile. “Guess which one Guardians have more fun with!” 

John swallowed nervously. He was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of another guard, who muttered something to the officer and left. 

“Ah,” said the officer. “This is interesting. Stay here.”

When she left, John slumped in his seat. His God-Tier pajamas were still comfortable, which was good, but they tended to bunch up in weird places when he sat slouched.

He stopped. He was still in his God-Tier pajamas. 

Well that was very interesting. Did this mean he got to keep his sweet bonuses and powers?

He tried waving his hands around, attempting to do the Windy Thing. All this got him was a funny look from the remaining guard in the room. So that was a “no.” 

The next option was the God-Tier immortality. Which… well, John wasn’t eager to test that. 

He was stopped from thinking of further experiments by the return of the officer, who had a familiar face in tow. 

“No, no, it’s totes fine. It’s fiiiiiiiiiine. Def not gonna do it again. Um. What did I do again?”

From the exasperated sigh, this conversation had been going for a while. 

The guard half-dragged, half-pushed a very familiar young woman, dressed in dark blue and black clothing (complete with matching mask) into the room. Upon realizing who was already in the room, she flashed a bright, toothy grin. “Hi, John! ‘s been a while!”

“Hi, Roxy.”

“So what’re ya in for?” she asked, as the guard left the room again.

“I’m… actually I’m not really sure. I woke up on the roof of a huge building that’s apparently called the Central Temple or something and they brought me here after helping me down.”

“It’s p much the same for me,” she replied, pronouncing the “p” rather than fully saying the word. “Only I was on top of a bathhouse.” 

“... a bathhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“What, like, a big building full of baths?”

“Uhhhh huh.” There was an edge to her voice, implying with all the might that a tone of voice could imply with. The faint blush on her cheeks didn’t help. 

“Well okay then,” said John, nonplussed. 

“So anyways, what happened?”

“I wish I knew,” John sighed. “The last thing I remember before waking up here is a whoosh.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm?”

“Hmmm.”

“What are you hmmm-ing about?”

“Stuff.”

“That’s a lot to hmmm about.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’. Might take me all night.” 

“Sounds like something that would go smoother with two people.”

“Oh _really?_ You’d do that for little old me?” Roxy winked, or in her case, wonked. John had a distinct feeling that he’d missed something. Fortunately, he was saved from further wonking by a polite knock at the door. Someone entirely new entered, someone without a guard’s uniform. They also didn’t have a guard’s bearing. Instead, they walked like a person accustomed to having to walk the same way no matter where they went - poised. 

“Hi there,” he said, offering a friendly smile and handshake. “Call me Rune.” He gestured to the chairs. “Please, sit.” When they did so, he continued. “I’m here because… well, a lot of reasons. Truth be told I’m a little tired. You mind if I sit down too?” Neither one objected. 

“So, if I may ask, what’s on your minds?”

The duo looked at each other. John spoke first. “Are we in trouble?”

 

==> Rose: Take stock of your situation

Rose sighed, looking out over the waves. Overall, it could have been much worse. For one, they could have been wiped out of existence by Lord English. For another, the Condesce could have enslaved them all. Really there could have been any number of truly awful fates in store for them. 

Really, though, would it have been too much to ask for a simple trip home? 

Perhaps, she reflected as she watched the two trolls she was probably the least familiar with swim, she was thinking about this wrong. The game could have been glitched in ways other than what they already knew. Or perhaps she was still thinking in the wrong ways. At this rate, who knew what had really happened with Sburb?

Still, things could be much worse. At least at the moment, she had allies. At the moment, that was all she really had. No idea of her location, no supplies, and most painfully, no knowledge of her situation. 

Time to tally her assets. 

One (1) tyrian pink-blooded troll empress-to-be (currently swimming).

One (1) violet-blooded troll, formerly a murderer that attempted and nearly succeeded at genocide (currently swimming). 

One (1) glow-in-the-dark and VERY refined jade-blooded troll (currently occupying the “better half” part of one’s life, and searching the nearby jungle). 

A crash of underbrush and a bold shout announced that one thing had not been forgotten.

Ah, yes. One (1) utter fool and ectobiological relative of a dear friend.

“TALLY HO, CHAPS AND CHAPPETTES!” came the shout. Rose kneaded her brow before turning to face her latest headache. The headache that was the straw to her migraine’s camel back. 

“Mr. English. Have you perhaps considered that not everyone on this island is as friendly as the rest of us are?” 

“Oh. Ah.” He at least has the decency to look embarrassed at his mistake, she thought, seeing him rub the back of his neck and look away. “Right. My apologies. I just let the adventure get to my head, you know. Good to be back and not… well, stuck playing some dashed silly game.”

“While I agree that Sburb was perhaps not the most healthy of pastimes, that doesn’t mean that we should act in similarly unhealthy manners.”

“Got it, o wise Seer!” He threw her a salute - a salute! She could see how he was related (ectobiologically) to John. “So, what’s our survival plan? The jungle’s teeming with life and adventure and it shouldn’t be too hard to scrounge up something to munch on, so we have that!”

Rose nodded thoughtfully. “Did you happen to see Kanaya while you were out there?”

“Sorry, but no. Couldn’t find a dashed trace of the lass! Funny, really, seeing how she glows.”

Rose forestalled an incoming tangent by holding up a hand. “It’s something she can turn off. Likely she did it in this case because of something potentially hostile being nearby. If we hear the sounds of a chainsaw in the distance, I’m sure we’ll be able to track it.” 

It was this moment that the two seadwelling trolls chose to surface and stagger back up onto shore. Feferi was already wringing the seawater out of her hair, a bright smile on her face, but Eridan looked considerably more perturbed. The Seer let the two of them catch their breath and give her their report in their own time.

Feferi shook her hair, sending droplets cascading over the beach, and said, “Well, we didn’t really find much. There were a lot of little fishies and some weird coral I’ve never seen before, but not much else.”

“Yeah, I didn’t find much either,” added Eridan. “No landmarks, nothin’ to navigate by, not even any signs of any other trolls. Or humans,” he added as an afterthought. “Nothin’ that could talk. Not even anythin’ from a ship or a shipwreck.” He huffed and crossed his arms, frowning deeply. “Nobody else thinks there’s anythin’ suspicious about this?”

“Oh, come on, Eridan, lighten up! Things could be a lot worse, and the water feels GREAT!”

“Well, yeah, I’m not denyin’ that the water feels fuckin’ amazing. Better than the seas back home, even. But it’s still botherin’ me that we don’t know where the fuck we are!”

Rose raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Surprisingly, I find myself agreeing with Eridan.” As the troll flung his arms skyward and muttered something about people finally growing some common sense organs in their thinkpans, she continued. “While this island is indeed quite idyllic, and I’m sure the water is equally so, we have greater concerns than aesthetic ones. Our first priority should be establishing a shelter, I think. After we get our bearings, we can begin searching for our friends.”

Before any further discussion could be had, Kanaya announced her return with a revving of her chainsaw and the crash of shredded vegetation. 

“Pardon the intrusion,” she said, “but I believe I have found someone who can help us.”

There were several someones, in fact, all carrying shields and spears, and wearing rather concerning expressions. 

==> Dave: Get to know your new traveling partner

“So, I, uh, really don’t think this is, uh, anywhere we’re supposed to, um, be.”

“No shit, Troll Sherlock. Deduce that from the angle of the sun?”

“Look, we’re not, um, exactly in the best of, uh, situations, but you could stand to be, y’know, a bit nicer.”

“Nope. We’re on the angry Dave train now.” The stoic teen’s expression hadn’t changed at all. “Just chugging along the tracks until it hits Fuck-this-noise-ville and maybe makes a stop at the junction next to the Desert of Utter Horseshit. Might have heard of it. We’re in it.”

Dave wasn’t angry, per se. Just annoyed. He really should have expected better than to just go home and be back to dumping sharp pointy things out of the fridge to get some god damn apple juice like nothing happened. Instead he got miles and miles of sand, and a troll with very few talents other than rap battles and hesitation. 

Well, it could have been worse. Tavros had mysteriously kept his robo-legs rather than being returned to his wheelchair, which would have been a complete pain in the ass to get through miles and miles of _fucking sand._

“There’s, um, something over there.” 

“And that would be…?” 

Tavros hesitated. “Um. A building, I think?” 

“Fifty boonbucks says it’s a trap. Or empty.” 

“I don’t think we have those anymore.” 

“Well, fuck. Here I was thinking that I’d make a shitton more boonbucks than I already had! Too bad they don’t exist anymore. Could’ve had a hundred smackaroos instead of fifty.” 

Tavros, almost imperceptibly, gritted his teeth. “Done?” 

“Yeah I’m done. Do we check out the abandoned trap building?” 

“All this sun is, uh, not helping me. At all. Um. It actually kind of hurts.” 

“Hope they have a phone in there.” 

“What?” 

“So we can call an ambulance.” 

“... uh, seriously?” 

“Nah dude, I’m just fuckin’ with you.” 

“That’s what I- oh, never mind.” 

The dusty mud-brick shack, for that was what it was, held very little other than more dust and more sand. At the very least, it was cooler than standing outside, if not much dimmer. Dave thought about how Tavros was actually probably really hurting, more so than he would let on, because of all the sun - even behind his sunglasses the (possibly former) Knight of Time was positively _sizzling_ in the heat and light. Even his super-comfy pajama-like robes weren’t helping much. 

His troll companion, at least, seemed to be relaxing a bit. They both leaned against the still-cool brick walls, breathing deeply now that the drifts of wind weren’t blowing grit into their faces. 

A thought occurred to Dave. “Hey.” 

“What?” 

“I’m thinking this isn’t the only thing here.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Would you build a tiny one-room shitshack in the middle of nowhere? I mean, I might, just for irony’s sake, but nobody else is as much of an irony master.” 

“Aside from your, uh, irony master claims, that’s, um, actually a pretty good point.” 

Dave rolled his eyes behind his shades. “So there’s either a hidden room or some bullshit here, or there’s more heaps like this nearby.” 

“I think I’d, uh, rather search in here. Yeah.” 

“A’ight.” 

It didn’t take much between the two to find a hidden room, protected by a curtain cleverly disguised to look like a cracked, dusty wall. Inside, it was much darker and cooler, and the floor (also much less dusty) sloped downwards. There were several crates at the opposite end of the room, almost as if they were waiting for a pair of brave adventurers to come and smash them open. It was as Dave reflexively pulled his sword out of nowhere that he realized he could still actually do that, which was funny seeing as how his God-Tier abilities and other cool things from Sburb had gone away. Curiously, he looked at it. 

Yep, it was still the same legendary piece of shit with an unpronounceable Welsh name. 

Well, he thought, no time like the present. He shoved the tip of the broken blade into the gap under the lid of a crate and began using all of his knowledge gained from hours of Half-Life to make the sword work as a crowbar. The top popped off under the force of his battle-hardened muscles, skinny as they may have been. Inside the crate sat several sacks of a weird substance that might have been mistaken for gunpowder, if not for the fact that it was a deep, burnt red instead of a soft gray. Dave experimentally let some run through his fingers. It almost felt like it warmed his hand as it fell back into the sack. 

“What the hell is this stuff?” he asked nobody in particular. 

“Whatever it is, I think it’s probably, um, really valuable.” 

“Yeah. Spice and flow and shit.” 

“It doesn’t smell like any spice I know of.” 

“Nothing pinging on my sniff radar either.” Dave put the lid back on the crate. He had a sneaking suspicion that he shouldn’t sneeze too hard around the stuff or he’d lose his eyebrows. Not that anyone would notice. 

Tavros, to his credit, had already popped the lid off of another with his lance. This one contained elaborately-carved boxes, like jewelry cases. He’d already opened one and found that it contained a single stone, no bigger than Dave’s thumb, that glittered green even in the dingy light. A face flickered across it for the barest second, just before Tavros picked it up. 

“Huh,” he said, just as Dave turned around to see that there were now half a dozen angry men in desert-faring robes aiming what looked like flintlock rifles at them. 

==> Jade: Stop barking up the wrong tree

Getting down from the tree had been awkward. Her Space dress with its flowy hood and bright shiny stockings kept getting caught on branches. Miraculously, it seemed to have suffered no actual damage of any kind. 

The awkwardness of the tree, however, had been nothing compared to the awkwardness of finding a very tense troll in the shade of a small copse not far away, licking animal blood off of the metallic blue claws she had strapped to her wrists and crouching over the corpse of a deer that had been, quite plainly, eviscerated. 

Having been out hunting for herself before, Jade was no stranger to gutting a wild animal. If she hadn’t been, she might have been sick at the sight. Even so, her composure had not helped much in approaching her new companion. 

Introductions had been difficult, and Jade felt that it was partly because of her canine ears. Still, once they’d actually been introduced and had some fresh venison roasting over a fire, the cat-like troll had warmed up to her quickly enough. 

Lunch had been a good idea, she thought. It kept Nepeta’s needle-sharp fangs occupied as she explained her theory - namely that they actually _had_ won, in the end, but something had yet again gone wrong. 

“So,” she concluded, “I think we need to set up a base camp somewhere and start mapping out the area. If we don’t get lost, we’ll find everyone faster.” 

Nepeta nodded, finishing a chunk of deer. “Sounds like a purr-fectly good plan to me. I can scratch together some purr-visions while mew get shelter set up.” 

Jade ignored the cat puns for the moment and said, “I think I can do that. I don’t _feel_ like I’m God-Tier anymore, but I think I still have some of my abilities.” 

“That makes as much sense as anything else going on.” 

The two set about their tasks quickly, not wishing to lose what daylight they had. Jade quickly found that she could indeed still move objects as part of her Space-y powers, but there was little else she could do with them other than swap the places of two specific objects. It made assembling a shelter a bit of a puzzle, but it was an enjoyable one, at least. She hoped she still had her rifle, but that was a question for after the shelter was finished. 

_Well,_ she thought, carefully placing the last branch on the roof by swapping it with a fallen leaf, _it could be a lot worse._ She’d managed to lift enough logs and branches to make an effective shelter for the both of them, though it might be a little tight. It wouldn’t win any prizes, but it would do. She gathered some stones to make a firepit, but her ears perked up as she was placing them. 

Something didn’t _sound_ right. 

Her doggy instincts led her to sniff the air, though that didn’t tell her much. Her ears twitched, the fur ruffling in a passing breeze. 

The birdsong had stopped. 

Suddenly, her own breathing sounded very loud indeed. Every muscle in her body tensed - this was a familiar sensation, as she had been stalked by predators before, on the island. Back then, though, she’d had Bec to watch her back. Now she was on her own. Nepeta was nowhere near and there had been no signs of anyone else at all. 

Jade closed her eyes to concentrate. Whatever was out there, it would make a sound the moment it moved closer. 

Wouldn’t it? 

A twig snapped, and in a flash her rifle was in her hands. Just as quickly as she drew the gun from wherever it had been, she sighted along the shining barrel, taking aim at the spot she believed the sound had come from, and fired. 

The blast of the rifle firing echoed throughout the forest. Jade had been fast enough that any observer would have thought that the snapping twig had totally exploded by some random chance before it had even finished breaking. 

Jade stared at her rifle, which was clearly not _her_ rifle. First of all, she was sure that nothing she’d ever owned had elaborate glyphs along the barrel, and said barrel certainly had never ended in a detailed carving of a snarling wolf. None of the rifles she’d ever owned had been made of silver, either. Especially silver that glinted like the full moon at midnight, and looked almost as though it were alive. 

Second of all, none of her weapons had ever made a tree disappear into a pile of firewood, matchsticks, and splinters. 

Jade continued staring at the beautifully lethal gun in her hands until Nepeta came bounding out of the trees behind her, hauling another deer over her shoulder. “What in the purr-ld was that ex-purr-losion?” she asked. 

“Um,” said Jade. She wordlessly showed her troll companion the rifle. “This.” 

Dumping her latest kill on the ground, Nepeta ran a delicate claw over the carvings. “Im-purr-sive, but how did it claw-se _that?_ ” 

Jade hoisted it again, drawing a bead on another tree. The rifle seemed almost… happy, now that it was being used once more. The ironsights jumped eagerly to line up with the point she had in mind. Just as she had done countless times before, Jade breathed in and squeezed the trigger. 

Nepeta’s jaw dropped, much like the trunk of the massive oak did after receiving a hole through it that a wolf could have leapt through. The resounding crash drowned out her comment, but Jade didn’t need to hear it to recognize the amazement. She did catch the rest of it, though. 

“How did mew _get_ that?” 

“I… have no idea. I think it’s my old rifle, just… different.” 

Nepeta considered this for a moment. “Maybe it’s a reward fur finishing the game?” 

“Maybe. I’m not convinced, though.” 

“It’s paw-sitively incredible!” 

“Okay, yeah, that’s true.” Jade looked at it critically. She began to take it apart, as though she were cleaning and maintaining it, only to find that it didn’t seem to want to come apart where it should. The cartridges came out just fine, but the stock didn’t have any point where it seemed to be bound to the barrel, and the firing mechanism refused to open except to be reloaded. Puzzled, the former Witch of Space counted out her rounds and found that she had the exact same number as she had last time she had checked, before firing. On a whim, she checked the ground for shell casings - none. 

Seeing this, Nepeta gave her a questioning look. After Jade explained herself, the troll shrugged and said, “Purr-obably a spacey thing!” 

Jade nodded agreement, but still felt a sense of apprehension. Something here didn’t add up. Nepeta had wandered off to get more food, and Jade hoped it wouldn’t be more meat. Surely trolls had to balance their diets with fruits and veggies too? 

Shrugging resignedly, she finished the firepit and collected the remains of her first tree-victim to serve as firewood. As she re-kindled the fire, she sat back feeling satisfied with her hard work. The next problem, of course, would be to find a means of map-making, but she was reasonably sure she could come up with something, even if it was stripped bark and charcoal. Maybe a drying rack of some kind as well, because all of this venison would go to waste otherwise…. 

The forest had regained some of its noise after her little weapons demonstration, but now it grew quiet again. Straining to hear, Jade mentally began reaching for her rifle once more. 

Footsteps. 

Not the light pouncing ones belonging to Nepeta, and not the heavy dragging ones of someone dragging a fresh kill back for dinner. 

Jade’s eyes darted over the edges of the clearing, searching for some sign… 

There! 

A tall figure, followed by several smaller ones, emerged from the growth opposite where Jade had stood up. It was a man, dressed in very, very fine robes - too fine for a forest stroll - accompanied by short, squat, armored servants. There was something unreal about the man in the way he moved, the way he looked at everything. And he carried in his left hand the end of a silken rope, trailing off so that whatever it was attached to remained unseen. 

“Greetings,” said the man, “Welcome to the Forests of the Woodsie Lord.” He smiled, and Jade felt her hackles rising. His teeth were all pointed, like an animal’s. “I invite you, traveler, to introduce yourself and join my fine companions and I at a small festival.” 

Jade frowned. “Do you often invite random strangers to parties like this?” 

“Not often, no,” said the Woodsie Lord with a bow. “But I make an exception in this case, for you must surely be exceptional.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Ah, what a wonderful story it is! May I sit as I tell it?” Before Jade could answer, one of the squat beings in armor had opened up its pack and assembled a chair that looked as though it had been made of solidified spiderwebs. The Woodsie Lord sat, and began telling his story, eyes closed in concentration… or bliss. 

“Walking through our woods, as we are wont to do, we heard a great noise. What a puzzle! It had been a quiet day and nothing was amiss. But now! Calamity could be striking and we would not know it but for the cataclysmic noise! Of course, it could have been a mere clap of thunder, but lightning never does strike twice at the same spot. When we heard the second blast, we rushed ourselves over to investigate. And here we found you!” 

Jade was, to say the least, not sure how to react to all of this. 

“So silent? But you should be honored! Not all draw the attention of one such as I!” 

“I… would imagine not,” she replied diplomatically. “I’m just wondering one thing.” 

“And that would be?” 

“Why specifically seek me out? I mean, why all the fanfare? You could have just investigated and walked off without bothering me.” 

“Ah.” There was a subtle change in the stranger’s face, and suddenly he looked less like a man and more like a _thing_ wearing a human-like mask. “Well, you see, there was another purpose to our walk.” 

Jade’s eyes flicked to the rope he held. “I assume it has something to do with that.” 

“You’re not wrong. Indeed, you are almost right. You see, we have a little… pet. One that requires regular exercise… and feeding.” He grinned as a roar shook the birds from the trees, and his teeth looked like jagged knives. 

==> Terezi: Sniff out some clues

Noise. That’s what all of this was. Loud, stinking noise, and by that she meant noise so loud and overbearing that you could practically _smell_ it and the unwashed people it was coming from. 

Terezi suspected that if she had learned to replace her sight with hearing rather than smell, she would be extremely disoriented right now. Thankfully she had been taught better than that. She had also been taught better than to just take a huge whiff and figure things out from there - a person with normal vision wouldn’t keep their eyes closed all the time and just look at the biggest, brightest images they could get. 

She prodded the comatose human girl lying in the alley with her foot. She knew from prior experience, melded with knowledge from her friends, that this was likely one Jane Crocker. Unfortunately, the girl seemed to be a very heavy sleeper. Doubly unfortunately, this left her with the dilemma of their other companion. 

She hadn’t wanted to trust Vriska. Troll jegus help her, she hadn’t wanted to. But with Crocker still unconscious and absolutely zero sign of any of their friends anywhere, it had fallen to Terezi to keep an eye - er, nostril - on Jane while Vriska scouted the city. 

Come to think of it, she _still_ didn’t trust Vriska. But at this point, she didn’t have any other options. 

Trying to get a sense of her surroundings, Terezi took a few experimental sniffs, trying to sift through everything she detected. 

Garbage, humans, sweat, more garbage, more humans, more sweat. Smoke. Smog. Dust and bricks. Lots of metal. Clinking metal with traces of everything possible on it. She decided to not dwell on where the metal had been. Instead she focused on the sounds and smells that accompanied it - food or leather or more metal, or even substances she didn’t know anything about but practically _dripped_ with illicitude. The smell of trade and business almost overwhelmed everything else. 

She could smell large groups of humans in creaking musty leather and clashing rusty metal, and she could hear their marching lockstep. Money meant a lot here, it seemed. 

Terezi eased herself down into a less-pointy bit of trash filling the alley, next to Jane, and began planning. 

Step one: acquire money. 

Step two… hm. 

Step one: acquire money. 

Step two… still a “hm.” 

Step three: ??? 

Step one HAD to be acquire money, but the others…. 

She was interrupted, rather rudely, by someone opening a window and shouting at her. 

“Get out of my alleyway! Damn beggars, probably spies for some street gang going to slit my throat for what little I have!” 

Thinking quickly, Terezi adopted the most pitiable and plaintive face she could and stared up at the source of the sound. Not just irritable, and male, but sick too, by the smell. 

“But sir,” she whined, “we don’t have anywhere else to go!” 

“You and your plague-bitten friend can go anywhere but here! Mutants don’t belong near honest folk!” Terezi’s first thought in response to that statement was a truly sincere doubt that this man was honest in any capacity, save his disdain for those beneath him… or at least his window. Her second thought, coming roughly at the same time as her keen ears picked up grumbling about “bringing plagues of raksha” down on his head, was that it was very interesting that he thought she was some kind of mutant. 

Her third thought was that it was so very hard to keep a straight face when using this old trick. “But… but sir!” she said, doing her best to get her lower lip to wibble pathetically. “Why would you say such cruel things to me?” Before he could follow it up with more vitriol, she added, “Why would you be so cruel to a blind girl?” 

There was a long moment of embarrassed silence. Terezi counted it off - one… two… three - and the window slammed shut. She bit down on her sleeve in an attempt to stifle her cackling. Ye gods, that had been fun. It had been so long since she’d gotten to pull that on someone, too. 

Her reminiscing was interrupted by the banana-orange-smoothie-flavored arrival of Vriska. “Hey Terezi,” she said, being uncharacteristically low-key. “The Batterwitch’s heiress still out?” 

“Yes.” Terezi was being purposely terse. As dire as their situation was, she wanted to keep all her cards close to the vest. 

“Damn, the girl can sleep.” 

The other troll brushed it off. “What did you find?” 

“Not much. It’s so busy here! Honestly, how could you expect me to figure out where we are based on what I can see in all of fifteen minutes?” 

If she bothered using her eyes anymore, Terezi would have rolled them. _Spare me from the arachnoid dramatics,_ she thought. “Just tell me what you could see.” 

“A lot of pointless rushing and talking, that’s what. The only times anyone stopped was to shout at someone or spend money. And it was usually both!” 

That was all the evidence she needed to support her earlier conclusion. Money would indeed be important. “Alright,” she said, “what about the people?” 

“Just a bunch of boring humans. Ugh. Not a troll in sight.” Something in Vriska’s voice told Terezi she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She could understand that, though probably for different reasons. On the one hand, it meant that they were completely on their own - no trolls, no lusii, no useful tools or potential contacts, not one familiar thing. It would be first contact with the four human players all over again, only with less to relate to and more possibility of getting killed. On the other hand, it also meant that Vriska didn’t have any mind-controlled pawns at the ready and couldn’t just betray them, if that was indeed what she had planned, and she also didn’t have any other advantage over them other than her God-Tier abilities, if she’d kept them. And Terezi knew how to work around those. All she’d need was a rolled-up newspaper. 

Factoring all of this together, along with her previous observations, Terezi came to a decision. 

“Okay. Grab Jane. I think it’s time we got out of here.” 

“What’s the plan?” asked Vriska, who made no move towards the comatose human. 

“We need to find a way to make some money. It flows around here like nectar in an Apiculture Network.” 

“Nice comparison, dorklord. Hang around ‘Tholluckth’ for too long after you stabbed me?” 

“Shut up.” Truthfully it had been all she could come up with on the spot. “Are you going to help me or not?” 

Before the other girl could respond, they were interrupted by someone shouting, “hey, you! What are you doing?” 

Both of them turned to the source of the sound, which happened to be a growling, stubbled man in blue armor, the top of his face obscured by a blue leather hood with a crimson crest. He had a club of some kind already drawn, and looked like he was ready to use it. Terezi took a small, subtle sniff. She could smell the fear on him. She could also smell the raw anger coming off of Vriska, like she was a small sun that radiated fury. She gave her companion a short sharp kick to the back of her ankle to signal to her that action was not a good idea right now. 

“Come on, you!” said the man. “You know the law. Nobody to gather in the alleyways by order of the Dawn Sergeant, Pellicia.” 

“But that’s the problem, sir,” said Terezi, taking the lead. “We don’t know the law.” 

“You don’t… what? Come out into the light, where I can see you.” 

Adopting an attitude of confusion and contrition, because she knew how to work over a law enforcer, she shuffled forward, making a big show of tapping her cane in front of her. She heard a sharp intake of breath from the man, and thought she heard him take a half-step back. “We really don’t know. Nobody told us we couldn’t be here, sir, and our friend, she’s sick….” She trailed off in a truly pitiful tone. Humans were such suckers for that kind of thing. 

“I… alright, I suppose that’s….” The man paused for thought, blowing a sigh through his nose. “Damned Council. Civilities shouldn’t just be announced and enforced so quickly like this…” he muttered to himself. “Alright, fine. I’m letting you lot off this once. But you can’t bloody well stay.” 

“But what about our frieeeeeeeend?” whined Vriska, picking up her cue. 

“I… ye gods, how did you two not hear the new laws? I figured you’d have known, even if you’d been in the worst parts of Firewander which, if you don’t mind my saying so, you must have been to look like that." 

Terezi was puzzled by the aside, but kept up her act. “Please sir, we need to help our friend.” 

“Alright, alright! Stop… stop looking at me like that. I think.” Under normal circumstances, Terezi would have chuckled. Her glasses must have confused him. But humans (and trolls, for that matter) saw what they expected to, so he must have thought she was giving him the teary-eyed stare of a homeless street urchin. “I’ll… ugh. Fine. I’m not arresting-” He was interrupted by the arrival of several others in similar uniform. 

“Come on, Cavan, we haven’t got all day,” grumbled one of the newcomers. 

“Yeah, but these… girls here, they need help,” replied Cavan. 

Terezi managed a pitiful snuffle, which disguised her keenly searching out any potentially useful scents from the newcomers. Nothing so far. Vriska, for her part, knelt down next to Jane and was apparently biting at her sleeve out of concern. In reality, she’d accidentally kicked a misplaced brick hidden in the gloom, and was biting her sleeve to keep from cursing loudly at it, but she wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. 

“We can’t do that. You know the Civilities.” 

“Yeah, but we can’t arrest them either, can we?” 

“Well,” said a third, “technically we’re supposed to.” 

“They’re from Firewander! They’re trying to get their sick friend-” 

“Yeah, alright, but alleys aren’t where you find medicine. At least, any medicine that won’t just kill you faster.” 

An idea seemed to strike Cavan. “Wait, wait! We could take them into… Ladeel, you were in Lookshy for that one job, what did they call that thing they did?” 

“Military policing?” 

“No, no….” 

“Martial law?” 

“No, it was… wossname, they took some sod into… oh, bugger….” 

“... protective custody?” 

“That was it! That was the thing!” 

“Let me get this straight,” said the first of the group. “You want us to only-sort-of-arrest these girls, two of whom look pretty heavily Wyld-mutated, and the other one is sick, because…?” 

“Because some Bronze Pioneer bastard might not even have half a heart like you do, Drell, and take it upon himself to try and beat the Wyld out of them!” 

While the group of them continued to argue, Terezi felt Vriska tap her on the knee. Jane was stirring. Terezi leaned down to help her up. 

Jane’s eyelids flickered open, and she let out a yelp of surprise when she saw, as the first thing since ridding herself of the terrible Batterwitch’s mind control, two shadowed faces, one of which had fangs and the other had glinting red eyes. 

The silence that fell upon the alleyway was deafening. Sheepishly, Jane said, “Oh dear, my, um, apologies… I thought that… um… I was surrounded by… er, that is to say that I felt… I’m just going to be quiet now.” She was beginning to wilt under Vriska’s baleful “You Done Fucked Up” stare. 

“I think,” said Drell, who was apparently the leader of the little squad, “that you three had better come with us.” 

==> Equius: Wake up

Voices roused Equius, slowly, through his throbbing headache. His thinkpan felt as though it had been steam-pressed. 

“Great Maker, do you realize how strong he is? He knocked out Press! With a punch that sent him out the window and across the street!” 

“I’m aware, Clarion.” 

“I’ve never heard of someone - not even a Champion - strong enough to knock a Champion through adamant-reinforced glass!” 

Disgruntled, the other voice grumbled, “Clearly, it wasn’t properly reinforced….” 

“Okay, Bulwark, we know you’re not happy about the shortages. We have a more important issue here!” 

A third, more solemn voice broke in. “Your issue is also currently awake.” 

Trying to force his eyes open, the “issue” felt cool hands pull him upright. The hands remained clamped tight around his wrists and upper arms, restraining him quite effectively - his strength meant nothing if he couldn’t move his limbs in the first place. 

Equius cracked his eyes open, just barely. The light, though dim, was plenty for his troll eyes to see by. Three humanoid figures, made of softly glinting metal, were watching him. One, who looked as though he were made of silver, leaned down and stared him straight in the face. The troll could see tiny lenses and wires in the optics of the mechanical man, but his wonderings at the construction were cut short. 

“Hello, stranger,” said the silver man. It wasn’t a friendly greeting. “I am known as _Elegant Bulwark Against the Void._ And you are a very interesting… anomaly.” 

The solemn voice whispered in Equius’ auricular sponge clot, “I have you held quite securely. Answer all questions truthfully and to the full extent of your knowledge. I still have two arms and many Charms to encourage cooperation.” 

It took Equius a moment to find his voice, having apparently misplaced it during the same incident that caused these people to take him prisoner. He was grateful that they allowed him the moment to speak, rather than his expectation of being manhandled. An Imperial drone would have already attempted to beat answers out of him, without even asking questions first. 

“And if I cooperate?” he croaked. 

Bulwark gave this due consideration. “Well, it depends on what the answers are. You’re an anomaly.” 

“So you’ve said.” 

“Quite frankly, none of us have seen anything like you, ever. So we need to determine a few things.” 

Closing his eyes to help blot out the hot pains running through his thinkpan, Equius replied levelly. “And those things would be?” 

“Well, first, you need to tell us what exactly you are. Clearly, you’re not human.” 

“I am an Alternian, though colloquially I am referred to as a troll.” 

“Interesting. Clarion, ask Clarity to check the archives for either one of those terms, would you?” 

“On it, boss.” 

“Now, secondly, how did you get here?” 

“I think... I think I would find it easier to answer that if I knew where ‘here’ was.” Equius opened his eyes to notice a significant glance pass between Bulwark and a golden-skinned woman - Clarion, he supposed. 

“You… don’t actually know where you are?” asked Bulwark. 

The troll decided to give in to the urge to bite back. “I am being interrogated in a dark room and being held in place.” 

“I mean in general. Nation, city, anything like that?” 

He sighed. “No. Not at all. The last thing I remember is being attacked and defending myself.” 

The silence that descended upon the room could best be described as “stony.” There was a whirr and a click from behind Equius as the person holding him adjusted something unseen. 

“So…” said Bulwark, carefully, “the name Yugash means…?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Claslat? Xexas? Sova?” 

“Not a thing.” 

“Not even the name Ot?” 

“No.” 

Desperately, Bulwark tried one last thing. “Project Razor?” 

“While it sounds interesting, this is the first I’ve heard of it.” 

Bulwark swallowed. “Reach?” he asked. 

“This is the truth,” said the figure holding Equius. 

“Thermal confirms, boss,” chimed in the golden woman, her eyes glowing. “And no Essence expenditure. He’s not lying.” 

Bulwark was silent for quite some time. Fortunately, whoever was holding Equius securely was also clever enough to keep him in a relatively rested position, so that he wouldn’t wear out while being spoken to. By the time that the silver man spoke again, the troll was beginning to wonder if he was even thinking about what had been said. 

“Alright, one last question. We found someone else. Spiky hair, dark glasses, wearing weird fingerless gloves and purple robes. Sound familiar?” 

“Obsessed with puppets and irony?” 

“In a word: yes.” 

“I believe I know him.” 

“Good, because you two are going to get to know each other even better now.” 

==> Karkat: Figure out where the fuck you are

“SHIT!” 

The dry, blasted, stony landscape echoed with the raw force of the expletive. It took a practiced voice to muster that kind of vehemence. That being said, it was entirely justified, as was the string of profanities that quickly followed, and the long train that had preceded it. 

Karkat scrabbled down a steep hill as basalt and chunks of black iron ore cascaded down after him. Another quake, and this had been the fourth in fifteen minutes. Even accounting for aftershocks that was four too many. 

“I SWEAR TO FUCK WHEN I FIND - ow! - OUT WHAT HAPPENED - gah! - I AM GOING TO-” his voice was cut off as he tripped over what looked like a tree root made of brass. If it hadn’t been for his carapace, he probably would have left a trail of blood all the way down the hillside. As it was, he was tremendously surprised that he hadn’t splattered gruesome graffiti somewhere on the way down by the time he reached the bottom. Miraculously, he tumbled into a small grotto as rock and shards of metal showered past. 

Still breathing heavily, Karkat leaned back and closed his eyes. His auricular sponge clots stayed primed and ready to pick up the faintest hint of shifting rock, but the rest of his body was collapsing into an exhausted trance. 

Fuck everything. Fuck this place, fuck his luck, fuck him, fuck everything to do with this entire situation. Even the air in this place smelled like it hated him, and he was ready to return the favor. 

And _especially_ fuck the stupid game that had gotten him here in the first place. 

Yeah, fine, it was technically unavoidable. Some stupid bullshit to do with the natural cycles of the universe or whatever. Still, fuck that. If this was the Prize, then it could go fuck itself too. 

Karkat took a deep breath to calm himself, telling the back part of his mind - the part that always wanted to rant and scream about things not working like they were supposed to - to calm the fuck down for five minutes. He needed to think, and making lots of noise wasn’t going to help. 

That was one of the things he hated about this place. It was always full of so much goddamned noise. Shouts, banging rocks, clanging metal, bizarre “music” that would have given even addled, pan-fried clown worshippers like Gamzee… 

… Gamzee. 

Fuck. 

Karkat gritted his teeth, biting back the sick burning that was beginning to rise in his chest like a tide of acid. 

If only he’d been better at being a moirail, if only he’d been able to get Gamzee to see reason - 

No, he told himself. Thinking like that wouldn’t help him. The only way to get out was to move forward, right? Assuming “forward” didn’t involve another earthquake, blast of metal, acid shower, or entire storm of corpses. That had damn near snapped his already strained psyche in half, seeing that. Just corpses, blown about on air currents that seemed to touch nothing else. It had been so far away he hadn’t been able to tell for sure, but no living body lolled and twisted the way the bodies had. He suppressed a shudder at the memory. 

There was a whisper of doubt in the back of his mind, telling him that he could have prevented all of this. Karkat pushed it aside once again, and levered himself up to look out the cave mouth. 

This place was… well, “unlike anything else he’d ever seen” would be one way to describe it. “Utterly grubfuck insane” would also be accurate. It was like a city that just stretched on forever, up until it crushed all together in a massive earthquake that destroyed everything in sight. And the noise never stopped, like whoever was making it or at least contributing to it was frantically trying to stay alive, like the noise would keep them from dying so long as it went on.  
He was already getting a splitting headache. 

And then there was the sunlight. What the fuck kind of place had a sun that burned bright green? Sure, Alternia’s moons had been pink and green, but the sunlight (insofar as he’d ever seen any of it, which had been once and he’d regretted it instantly) had been the same bright yellow-white that John had described. The green light here, though, tinged everything, making him feel queasy and off-balance. 

A far-off rumble reminded him that he couldn’t stay here. Buildings, or at least structures that had enough building-like qualities to seem like shelter, loomed in the distance. Structures that provided shelter meant people. And people meant, potentially, help. Or at least the chance of it, and that was better than a guarantee of dying horribly out here, alone. 

The slope below the cave mouth wasn’t quite as steep as what was above it, making for an easier trip down. The troll made his way down relatively safely, save for a few crumbling ledges and outcroppings. He climbed the nearest jagged hill, pushing himself to continue no matter how exhausted he would get. 

What greeted him at the top of the hill, however, provided a great reason to stop. There was a pool of bubbling green solution, something that looked like every terrible cartoon’s depiction of acid. This was, in essence, the platonic ideal of acid - something that would eat through anything in seconds. Karkat kicked a pebble in to test this hypothesis, and was rewarded with a horrendous-sounding hiss. 

“Great,” he said, muttering darkly to himself as he turned away. “More shit that wants to kill me. I don’t suppose there’s one single fucking thing that doesn’t want to tear out my protein chute and have it for lunch with grub sauce and my eyeballs on the side, with shame globe souffle for dessert? No? Didn’t fucking think so! Now I’ve got to find some other way….” He trailed off, only now noticing the hissing and spitting noises coming from behind him. 

Having been raised on Alternia, he really should have known better. But then, it had been a long day. 

He whirled, drawing his sickle from the weird conceptual space of a “Strife Deck” and dropping into a crouch. He almost dropped the weapon in surprise as he looked at the… the thing that was standing in front of him. It was like a cholerbear, if they’d been twice the size, had no muzzle, and watched their prey through three pairs of eyes. The thing’s brown-yellow hide was covered in shaggy, similarly-colored fur that dripped with the hideous corrosive substance it had apparently sprang from. It towered over him like a monolith, only in this case there would be a messy devouring instead of monkeys hitting other monkeys with old bones. 

Karkat swallowed and gripped his spiny, clawed sickle more tightly. Fuck it. If he was going down, he was going down fighting, kicking, and screaming. He’d give this thing a serious case of indigestion, or maybe his bone bulge would catch in its throat and it would choke. 

He fought back the pangs of regret and images of his friends, surfacing from his mind. 

Just as he was about to scream an enormous cascade of vulgarity-laced threats and charge, the thing spoke. 

“Mortal thing that has been brought here by the will of the Almighty, sires of the Unquestionable. I have been commanded to locate you.” It’s voice hissed and burbled like the acid pool it had risen out of. 

Too stunned to do anything else, Karkat responded, “Excuse me?” 

“I bear a message for the one known as Karkat Vantas. You are he.” This was a plain statement, not a question. 

“First, fuck you. Second, I don’t remember giving anyone my name, especially anyone that would give a message for me to a phlegm-drenched, inbred-looking spawn of a cholerbear and a pile of steroids with a horrorterror’s godforsaken shit for a lusus.” 

“You are indeed he. You find this form unconducive to discourse?” 

“Asshole, I find that form unconducive to breathing the same air.” 

“Very well.” The thing’s form began to ripple slightly, and there was a bizarre sucking noise as it seemed to condense and shrink, going from ten feet tall and wider than a thermal hull to wickedly thin, the same height as Karkat, and with spiralling horns. “This is more acceptable?” 

Karkat remained sullenly silent. This did not discourage the creature. 

“I bear a message from the Principle of Hierarchy,” it said. Karkat was about to make an acerbic remark about what a completely moronic name for a school “Hierarchy” was when he noticed something off about the beast. It had been speaking with a rumbling, hissing voice, but when it named the origin of its message, it spoke with a ringing tone, one that was almost… crystalline. The voice didn’t sound natural, but rather like it had been perfectly synthesized to mimic what was a perfect fit for the situation. 

“She Who Lives In Her Name knows of you, mortal thing,” it continued. “The Principle of Hierarchy knows of your failures.” 

This hit one of Karkat’s many raw, exposed nerves. “Fuck you!” he screamed. “And fuck your bizarre empress who thinks she knows who I am!” 

The thing’s voice now positively _rang_ with crystal harmonies, ones that should have been perfect but clashed in some subtle way with the troll’s senses. “The Pyrian Flame has watched you in the game. She knows of your frustrations. She knows you, Karkat Vantas. How often you have screamed at yourself inside of your head. How often you have blamed yourself for lack of understanding. Oh yes. You couldn’t have possibly known. Yet you should have.” Karkat wanted to spit more bile at the thing, but he couldn’t. His throat had closed up. “Each mistake, each loss, each death. It all could have been prevented. You should have known more, shouldn’t you? You should have understood what you were getting into. Your friends would still be alive if it weren’t for you.” 

Karkat seethed. His grip on his sickle would have cracked it in half if it weren’t already one of the strongest things he could possibly have ever made. His teeth were gritted so tightly that they might crack at any moment. He was shaking with undeniable rage at the utter gall of this bell-voiced monstrosity. 

“We offer a solution. We offer understanding.” 

Karkat’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. 

“You wish to know what went wrong. You wish to know how it could all be prevented again.” The thing’s eyes were glinting with a viridian light now, as it leaned into his face. “That can be arranged, Karkat Vantas. We can give you power. We can teach you how to bring everything into proper line so that it does not go wrong again.” 

The troll couldn’t will himself to move. He should be spitting in this thing’s face, he should be telling it to fuck itself with a rusted lawnring implement, he should be running the hell away… but he couldn’t do it. 

“You will never need to blame yourself again, Karkat Vantas.” 

Finally, he got his mouth working again. “And what the ever-loving, paradox-space-forsaken _fuck_ would I be agreeing to?” 

“An investiture of power. And one of glory. Also, it should be noted, one of survival.” 

“What in the name of whatever hideous, malformed god you worship is that supposed to mean?” 

“This is the Demon City, mortal. You are not welcome here. Accept this offer, or die, choking on the toxic breath of Malfeas that permeates the totality of all this realm.” 

_Shit._ That was what had been bothering him about the air. 

“Who says I’m going to die?” 

“It is fact. No mortal in the Demon City lives unaided more than seven days. No more, no less.” 

Well, that put a stop to any plans he might have had. The monster had shown him both the tasty plate of grubs and the culling fork, and now he really had no choice. Not if he wanted to live… 

… and not if he wanted to look at himself in the mirror again. 

“Take your time deciding, Karkat Vantas. We will wait.” 

“Fuck that.” His shoulders drooped defeatedly, and his grip on his weapon slackened. His downcast face betrayed his exhaustion. “You could be lying to me through whatever you have for teeth.” 

“This is no lie. We would not insult you so. You have been… specially selected for this honor.” 

“What kind of honor is this? A deal where I join you or die?” he spat back, outraged. 

“The honor of a Prince of Hell, and leader of the legions that would bring the world back to its rightful owners. You would walk as an Unquestionable does, ruling anything you lay eyes upon.” 

Something buried deep in his bloodpusher twinged at that. He was destined for greatness, wasn’t he? He had been the leader of the Red Team, and the whole group of them after that, and the survivors even after that. Something deep within him told him that now was the time to get the recognition he so rightly deserved. 

And still… “You will never need to blame yourself again, Karkat Vantas,” the thing had said. 

“Will you accept your crown, Green Sun Prince?” The monster had extended a single, wickedly clawed hand. 

Still staring at the ground, Karkat wordlessly accepted its hand. For a moment, there was a hideous smile upon its face. Then its grip tightened, like a vise, and Karkat looked up to find it lunging at him, mouth stretched impossibly wide as its form unraveled into a viridescent shower of light- 

-and the world stopped, just as the scream of horror had frozen before it had escaped his lips. 

There was a distant sound of crystal thrumming. 

==> Aradia: Explore

There was a soundless roar in the distance, as the massive branches of the titanic tree shifted and wove themselves into a pathway. 

Sollux once again pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered “Fuck thith plathe” under his breath. 

Aradia gave him an encouraging nudge in the shoulder, smiling half-heartedly. Admittedly, this wasn’t anything remotely like they’d hoped they would get, but it was still better than being dead, wasn’t it? 

Still, their luck could have been a lot better. At least they had each other. 

Sollux looked around. The only way forward seemed to be the tree-road that had just formed in front of them. He grumbled something about “bullthit treeth the thize of fucking planetth” before hurling himself into walking forward. If he was going to have to deal with this, he’d do it head-on. Aradia followed behind, keeping close but letting the grouchy troll have some personal space. Both of them were immensely curious about the nature of this new place, though Sollux would never admit to it. 

The other curious thing, of course, was the fact that Sollux had regained his eyes. He wasn’t strictly complaining, of course. It was nice to be able to see again, especially since it meant seeing Aradia’s face. It was especially nice when she smiled. 

The downside to this was actually seeing the sanity-bending sights of… whatever this was. 

“Tho where the fuck do you think we are?” he asked his traveling partner. 

“I’m not really sure!” she responded. “This is nothing like anything I’ve seen in the dream bubbles, and I’m pretty sure not even Beforus had places like that.” 

Wood creaked under their footsteps. “Leaveth are the wrong color to be Alternian or Beforan. They look like thomething from Earth,” observed Sollux. “Altho, what happened to your wingth?” 

“I… don’t know, actually.” Aradia still wore the garb of the Maid of Time, but her wings had disappeared, along with both the voices of the dead in her mind and the faint pulse of Time itself running through her body. “Whatever happened to give you back your eyes, I’m pretty sure it also took away my God-Tier powers.” 

“Well, that’th jutht fucking great.” 

“It could be worse. And besides,” Aradia added, “this is pretty amazing.” She indicated a violently yellow flower bud sticking out of a branch. It was easily bigger than she was, and looked as though it might bloom at any moment. She crept up on it, wanting a closer look. She was stopped, however, by a gentle tug at the back of her robes. Sollux had stopped her, and was telekinetically picking up a fallen branch. He tossed the stick at the flower, which quivered as the wood clattered to the branch-floor nearby. 

Sollux waited, then picked up the branch again with his psionics and poked the bud. 

The bud opened, revealing a maw of curling petals studded with what looked like metal spikes. Several skeletons, in various states of decay, clattered to the ground as sticky green tendrils lashed out and wrapped themselves around the branch before pulling it into a messy flurry of plant juices and savage, shredding teeth. 

“Like I thaid: fuck thith plathe.” At the moment, Aradia was inclined to agree. In fact, she was quickly growing uneasy with the place. Every breath she took seemed to feel different, somehow, and it felt like the place had an energy all its own - not a good kind of energy, but one that was sinister, untouchable, and would relish the opportunity to take hold of them and… and do _something_ to them. She couldn’t be sure what, and she didn’t want to find out. 

The two walked on in silence for what seemed to be hours, sticking closely to the center of the path. Sounds - distant cracks of breaking twigs, shifting leaves, creaking wood - drifted through the tightly-woven branches, weaving past the two before slipping off into the overgrowth. They saw a few more of the same horrifying plants, some of which had bones littering the ground near them that defied description. All the while, the branches grew closer together and more tightly-knight, forming a tunnel of living wood and leaves. 

Eventually, the two began hearing drums. They were faint at first, thrumming like a faint heartbeat, but they quickly grew stronger as the two continued marching forward. Soon, there was also chanting in a language neither of them knew. 

The tunnel widened out slightly, and the duo found that they could see what would in other circumstances be described as a clearing. Hunched figures danced and chanted as other played the drums they had been hearing, seemingly conducting some kind of ceremony on the grounds of… 

“AA,” Sollux whispered, “ith that a frog temple?” 

It certainly looked that way to her. It was the same design as the one she had unearthed back home: an impressively tall stone ziggurat with a simple statue of a frog perched on top, surrounded by spires topped with carved lily pads. The temple grounds were surrounded by more of those carnivorous flowers, although the trolls could see some of the hunched figures moving among them with impunity. 

There was a sudden _crack_ from the far end, and the hunched figures began to flee before a horde of ravening beasts bursting through the flower wall. Massive creatures that looked like minotaurs, if the bull part had been replaced with an elk, charged forward, trampling the flowers underhoof. Even larger beasts that looked like the worst nightmares of a lusus followed behind, chasing down some of the hunched figures and scooping them, screaming, into terrible jaws that closed with sickening crunches. 

In the midst of the confusion, neither troll noticed the similar _crack_ from behind them, until they had been seized by one of the elk-monsters. This one was a truly titanic example of its kind, scooping each of them up in one gnarled fist. It bellowed as it charged forward, dragging them along. 

Sollux yelled wordlessly, and Aradia could already see the blue and red sparks dancing around his horns as he aimed his psionics at the beast. A blast of red and blue force hit the thing square in the face, causing it to reel. In its pain and fury, the monster squeezed the two tighter. 

Despite his torso being crushed, Sollux used the pain to focus his powers. He yelled again, this time aiming a blast right under the monster’s jaw. Aradia’s own telekinesis struck it at the same time, though her aim was slightly off-target, striking it alongside the face. The combined strength of their blows, however, snapped the monster’s head back and to the side with enough force to break its neck. It toppled over, the momentum of its charge still carrying it forward, and the two tumbled out of its slackening grasp just in time to avoid being crushed by its carcass. 

They scrambled to stand up in the chaos. Aradia was first, hauling Sollux to his feet before dragging him out of the way of one of the devouring behemoths. 

A horn sounded above the screams of pain and monstrous roars, and thunder clapped overhead. 

Both trolls found themselves looking at the frog statue, which suddenly shook violently and exploded. Shards of rock showered the battlefield, and in its place stood a huge frog with the head of an ivy-shrouded woman. 

Their jaws dropped in sheer disbelief as the frog leapt off the temple’s peak, landing with bone-shattering force on one of the behemoths. Two of the elk monsters charged, not realizing the danger their opponent posed, before being swept away by a flick of one of the frog’s limbs. They cannoned into their allies, bellowing in pain, before being crushed under the frog as it leapt again. Vines and trees sprung up wherever it had been, choking and entangling the monsters that remained or were unlucky enough to be nearby. 

Then, the titan opened its mouth. Both trolls dropped to the ground, hands planted firmly over their auricular sponge clots as the thunderous blast of sound washed over them like a tidal wave. Their heads ringing, Sollux and Aradia looked up to find the ground itself reaching up to tear apart and devour the invading monsters. Not knowing what to do, they froze in sheer terror, hoping that they would not be counted as the enemy. 

Just as suddenly as the battle had started, it stopped. The frog titan spoke again, this time more quietly, and the ground returned to being ground. One of the hunched figures approached and bowed low, muttering something to the titan. It was silenced by a gesture, a simple twitch of the boulder-sized toes, as the nose on the massive face wrinkled, sniffing the air. 

The titan turned, seeing Sollux and Aradia picking themselves up off the ground. It spoke in a language that seemed to be older than time itself, and equally as incomprehensible, but the meanings of the words echoed inside their heads. 

“I know this scent,” it said, voice rumbling like a thunderstorm. “I smell my Essence upon you, small ones, and the Essence of my brethren, and the Essence of those I turned to join.” It leaned down, cocking its head to the side, so that one incredibly huge eye was gazing at the two trolls. “Who are you, children of the Games?” 

Neither one responded. How did you answer a question like that, from something like that? 

“Speak, small ones. I will not harm you.” 

Aradia’s voice shook, though she was trying her hardest to keep it steady. “M-my name is Aradia. This is Sollux.” 

“I asked not your names. I asked who you are.” 

The trolls looked at each other. How were they supposed to answer? 

“I see that this is not going to proceed quickly. Enter the temple,” the titan said. In a rush of air, it sprang up to the peak where the statue had been. There was a crack and a flash of light, and the titan vanished, replaced once more by the statue. 

Sollux and Aradia found themselves pushed towards the entrance to the temple by the hunched figures, wondering if this would end well for them or not. 

==> Gam  
AH HA HA HA HA  
fuck no  
HONK  
honk  
>:oD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter here is mostly just to establish where everyone is, and what they're getting into. Subsequent ones will be less lengthy, since they'll only be focusing on one or two groups. 
> 
> Also, I will occasionally post about my work on this over on my tumblr, at http://ryumarumg.tumblr.com/ Check it out if you want to see some extras or possibly even some spoilers/little previews. I have a separate tag for everything related to this; I use the title for the tag. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the eyes of Heaven are upon the players....


	2. Harmonious Academic Methodology

Once, there was a maiden who lost everything.  
She struggled to reclaim it  
Not knowing it was impossible  
When she was done, her struggles had created a new world.  
She settled in this new world, alone.  
“Life begets life,” she said. 

==> Roxy: Get yourself and your friend out of trouble

The new guy, Rune, was pretty cute, she had to admit. On the other hand, she had no idea why he was really there. For all she knew, he could just be an agent trying to get some kind of confession out of them so that they could be thrown in jail for the rest of their lives. 

Well, the Rogue of Void would have something to say about _that_! 

“Not exactly,” said the red-haired man, answering John’s question. “See, you didn’t really do anything illegal.”

Oh. Well. 

“In fact, the Syndics actually got a bit of a chuckle out of your antics. But at the same time, nobody knows where you came from or why you’re here. So you can understand why they, and the people of Whitewall, would be a bit suspicious.” 

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” agreed John. “So what do we have to do?”

“I’m not sure, really.” Rune crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side, trying to keep the atmosphere relaxed. “Neither one of you is a ghost or one of the Fair Folk, so you’re not part of one of the big threats to the city.”

“Well, yeah, it should be pretty obvious we’re not dead,” said Roxy. “But what’s a Fair Folk?”

Rune looked genuinely confused. “You mean you’ve never heard of them? Raksha? Fae?” Seeing their blank looks, he mentally rummaged around for more terms. “I’ve also heard them called the Kindly Ones or the Gentry, in other places.” 

“Uh, sorry, but it’s not ringing any bells.” John shrugged apologetically. 

The red-haired man pondered this for a moment. He whispered something to himself, but Roxy only caught the tail end of it: “... then that vision….” 

He shook his head, and continued. “Well, let’s put that aside for now. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that you two are more important than anyone thinks. At least right now. So, I’m taking you two under my wing, so to speak. I’m going to take responsibility for you.”

“What, like, adopt us?” asked John. 

“No, not quite. It’s more like… I’m going to watch you for a while. You’ll be given jobs and a place to live in the city, but anything that goes wrong, you answer to me for it. And I answer to the rest of the city. Understand?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” 

“Well then!” Rune clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Wait right here, I’m going to resolve a few things, and then I’ll take you to your new lodgings. Alright?” 

The duo nodded their assent. As Rune left the room, they sat down to await their future. Roxy found her mind wandering to her companion. She certainly could have had far worse luck than to be stuck with him, especially seeing how easy on the eyes he was. But for all her efforts so far, and in the past, he seemed totally immune to the usual flirtatious tactics. 

Disguising her actions as merely leaning on the table and staring off into space, Roxy let herself watch John’s chest rise and fall. The fabric of his robes stretched nearly taut as he took a deep breath, and she had to stop herself from licking her lips. Mentally, she shook herself. There were more important things than figuring out some way to indulge in sloppy makeouts with her current traveling partner. 

John, on the other hand, was contemplating if there was any chance he’d ever see any of his favorite movies again. Everyone he’d met so far had been dressed like something out of his medieval history textbooks, which did not suggest encouraging things. Sure, he’d outgrown Con Air, but… it was familiar. It was safe. It would be… comforting. 

Plus there was still Nic Cage to consider. 

John wondered if anyone here had actually heard of Nic Cage, but that thought was interrupted by Rune’s return. 

“Alright, kids, let’s go,” he said, and they stepped out into the cold, close streets of Whitewall. 

 

==> Sollux: Deal with this mysterious horseshit

The inside of the temple was drafty and barren, nothing but ivy creeping slowly over the stones in bizarre hieroglyphic patterns. Sollux thought he could make some semblance of sense out of them, but they looked nothing like Alternian or English, or even any variant of troll or huma- 

Actually, wait. He’d done some research on what he’d considered at the time were idiotic aliens, and found a couple of their cultures that used writing similar to this. But this was just the way the vines were growing, right? And even if it wasn’t it still made no sense. 

Ye gods, he hated this place. 

There was no sign of the massive frog-woman, and the darkness inside the temple folded around them like a cloak. It was almost completely silent in the chamber, despite its size, and the two trolls could only hear the faint sounds of their breathing. At the moment, it was as though the room was the entire world, and they were the only two beings in it. It might have been romantic in any other situation, but right now Sollux would settle for both of them leaving alive, unharmed, and still sane.

The air shifted, and the two watched as luminescent spores filled the air and cast a faintly green pallor over the entire room. Shadows shifted and danced away from them as they continued walking forward, sticking close to one another. The whole room seemed to breathe, just faintly, and they heard a voice not entirely unlike that of the titan that had invited them in beckoning them closer. 

Slowly, they approached what seemed to be the back wall of the chamber. Vines and ferns had grown over it completely, obscuring whatever might have decorated the ancient stone. The vegetation twisted into a facsimile of a face, one taller than the two of them if one stood on the other’s shoulders, with vines forming the lines of a weathered old woman’s skin. Her lips were old roots, and her eyes, blue flowers in many shades. 

“Welcome,” said the face. “Welcome once again. You have come a very long way from home, I know, but I cannot offer you a rest. I can only offer you what I know, because I know what it is you seek.” 

Aradia took the initiative. “We just want to find our friends again and get home.”

“As I said, I know. However, you cannot find your home. It no longer exists.”

The trolls stood in stunned silence, before Sollux finally whispered a deadpan “... what.” 

“You smell of the Essence I and my family put into the Games of Divinity, and I recognize your bodies as the work of my brother Autochthon. A mere theory, he had called you, until he saw fit to give you realization as part of the Games. It is no great difficulty to know that you come from the Games, though I am not sure why. But that does not matter. I will learn this in time.”

Vines slithered out from the darkness, furling themselves under the face’s chin like a folded pair of hands. As the being spoke, the vines twitched, curled, and gesticulated like an actor’s limbs.

“You no doubt seek answers. I am no stranger to this, though my quest may never end. Yours, however, will. Of this I can assure you.”

“Thomething tellth me thatth not really a good thing….” muttered Sollux under his breath. 

“First I must introduce myself,” said the being. If it had heard Sollux, it gave no indication. “I am known as Gaia, and it was I who made the body of the world alongside Cytheria, Mother of All, and it was I and Cytheria who breathed life into the leaves, into the limbs of beasts, and into the lights in the eyes of all things bearing souls.” 

Sollux was tempted to call bullshit on this, but then, he was currently talking to a giant face made of plants that had apparently been an even more giant frog-woman not five minutes before. 

“You no doubt find this hard to believe. It matters not. I tell you the truth, small ones, and it is imperative that you listen to me. Your presence here is portentious, and as I know the Games of Divinity, there can be no doubt that you are not alone in leaving the realm you called home.”

Sollux and Aradia both nodded. “Yeah,” said Aradia. “It would be nice to find our friends.”

“Thome of them, at leatht,” Sollux added, scowling. 

“Then there is little time. Allow me to explain,” said Gaia, stretching vines around the two. The vines wrapped around the trolls’ limbs, lifting them into the air and holding them in front of the massive face. 

Sollux began to struggle, but Gaia merely blew a great breath, and spores flew into his face, making him cough and screw his eyes shut despite his glasses. 

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the temple, but floating above a twisting mass of energy and raw chaos. 

“In the beginning, there was the Wyld,” said the resonant, patient voice of Gaia. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from. 

“The Wyld was where we dwelled, but it was not home to us. We desired a true place to reside, and thus Creation was made.” There was a great heave, as though there had been a soundless thunderclap. Rocks, grass, trees, rivers, volcanoes - every possible part of a world rose up out of the chaos into a great disc. There was a sound of trumpeting elephants, and beasts began to walk the world. 

“Creation alone would not suffice. We required a city to live in.” Towers of glass, gold, and marble swirled out of nothingness, floating above but in a separate world from the earth below. “Creation would not run itself. It required caretakers.” Beings that defied description rose from the earth and settled in the floating city. “Among them were my own children, the elementals, made from and proprietors of the five elements that made up both my own body and that of Creation. And in the Heavenly City, Yu-Shan, my bretheren installed the Games of Divinity.” 

Sollux’s view was eclipsed by a massive dome of jade, towering high above him as he now stood on the streets of the city. Massive titans walked past him and entered the dome - a man made of brass and the fires of stars, a serpent of shadows, ten thousand orbs of crystal, a limping figure of metal and wire, a silent river of nothing, a dragon of nothing but words, and stranger things still. 

“The Games could not be played as they were, and thus Autochthon, my brother, the Great Maker, made humans to power them with their faith and prayer.” The metal and wire figure’s massive hand descended from the clouds towards the earth, and spread over the land. Men and women rose up, and fell to their knees before the silhouettes of the titans, who looked at them, unfeeling, for a brief moment before returning to the jade dome. 

“The world would not support humans, and they could not take care of themselves. Worse still, my brethren would use them as toys, as mere things. They could not see the marvels that Autochthon had created, just as they had failed to see similar marvels before. And thus, the mightiest of the gods, the Incarnae, were made.”

The sky shifted, and Sollux could see a brilliant green sun split a piece from itself, which blazed gold. It descended into the world’s sky, bringing light to the humans below, and a towering man with four arms and armor of gold stepped forward into the divine city. Across the horizon, a massive set of wings enclosing something Sollux knew not what sat, and a silver orb rose from behind them. A being of ever-shifting forms strolled casually up and stood next to the golden man, flickering in lustrous silver. Stars scattered across the sky, and five women, each wearing a different color, smiled at Sollux from a room filled with strings and spiders. 

“Fate was spun into the great Loom, and with the Incarnae to watch over the lesser gods, who would watch over humanity, the Games were played. But as the world turned, so too did the temperaments of my brethren. They ruled with no thought but for themselves, and drove the gods as slaves. The humans… were treated worse.”

A great shadow fell across the land, and there was a sound like millions of screams. 

“The Incarnae, and in particular the Unconquered Sun, would not stand for this. They had grown to love humanity, and their world. And so a plan was made for revolution.” Deep inside a golden sphere, the golden man spoke to his compatriots. It did not seem to be going well. “It was doomed to fail, for the gods could not raise their hands, nor their voices, against their creators. But I and my brother learned of the plan.” There was a brief flash of images before Sollux’s eyes, as though he were reliving someone else’s memories; he saw the silver figure in many forms, all clearly the same person wearing different faces and bodies, all in a haze of fierce love and devotion, as though they were someone who meant the world….

Whispers slipped into his mind, words in a language unlike anything he had ever heard. It was as though every beast in existence were speaking to him. The meaning was clear, however. 

The room holding the seven great figures returned to his vision, and through a door came a tide of flowers and grass, followed by the pounding noise of machinery. The machine-man knelt before the golden one, and offered up something in a gnarled hand. 

“Autochthon forged the mightiest weapon possible, a way to bring out the true heroic spirit of a mere mortal, and make them equal to the gods, even to we Primordials, if they stood together. He gave this gift to the Incarnae, who accepted it and our alliance as they chose their Exalted champions.”

Light flared across the land. Humans burst out in golden light, others in silver, still others in the five colors of the weaving women. Yet more suddenly conjured flames or wind or twisting thorns, and they were drawn together in a united host of unimaginable power - power that Sollux could feel prickling through his tough, carapace-like skin and reaching into his core. 

“A war was fought,” said Gaia, and Sollux watched it all unfold. When he would try to recall it later, he would only find himself able to remember flashes of images - blood of ink swirling into a great sphere, the river becoming wind, something falling and _dying_ as it felt like a piece of the universe fell away and rotted, things made and unmade in instants, separate and simultaneous, a great cataclysm as three crystal spheres cracked-

“The gods and their Exalted champions won. Those of my family who survived surrendered, and my brother, the greatest among us and their leader, was taken, torn, and twisted inside-out to form a prison for the survivors of the losing side.” There was a great roar of pain and fury, so powerful that Sollux clapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes to blot out the tidal wave of sound. When he opened them, he saw the gods turning to enter the jade dome from before.

“The Primordials, now called the Yozis, had fallen, but the Games were still there. As they exist, they call out, and they must be played. They cannot be ignored. And so the Incarna gave the world to their Exalted champions, to rule. Autochthon, stricken with fear at seeing our brother’s fate, took his faithful and vanished, and I returned to wandering the Wyld, searching for a Shining Answer, painful though it was to leave those I had come to love.”

Sollux had a sudden feeling that one in particular had made for a bittersweet parting. 

“One of my many bodies resides in Yu-Shan, to play the Games when it is my turn and… for other reasons. But here I remain, searching. And though the world was left in the care of the Sun’s Chosen, I know this to no longer be true. I have cared to know little else, and now I see the folly of it.”

The visions faded. Sollux and Aradia blinked and rubbed their eyes, dazzled by the sudden dark of the temple after the wild sights and sounds they had been shown. Gaia’s face loomed out from the wall over them once more, continuing to speak.

“You are to be my messengers, small ones. I am Gaia, the last free Primordial, and I know that you are now entangled in the workings of Fate. There is little time, but I know you will seek answers.”

Sollux found his voice first, though it was hoarse, and cracked. “What… what wath that?”

“The history of Creation,” replied Gaia, simply. 

“And that’th where we are now?”

“No. It is fortunate that you are not, though I suspect your friends are there. You are in one of the reaches of the Wyld, where chaos still roams.”

“... why?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is the will of Fate, or perhaps a simple quirk of the Games.”

Aradia had now found her voice, and used it. “How exactly do these Games work? How are we from them?”

“Your universe, and many like it, are contained within the Games of Divinity. The Games are complex beyond the ken of any mortal, and even the Incarnae. I suspect that there were very few among the Primordials who understood what they were in their entirety. As for your second question, I believe you also played a game, one which offered a great reward.”

“Oh _hell_ no,” Sollux spat. “Hell fucking no! Thith can’t be the reward.”

“And yet,” said Gaia, “you stand here before me.”

“It’th a really thitty reward then.” Aradia shot him a glare, but Gaia let the unintentional insult pass. 

“It may not just be a reward for you, but for Creation as a whole. You are the first that I know of to escape the Games, and perhaps that means that you are the first to truly succeed at your own. But time grows short. You must leave for Yu-Shan, by way of Creation. I cannot send you there directly, but I can give you strength enough to carry yourselves. Such strength will be needed, I think.” 

“The hell are you talking about?” Sollux asked. 

“The Incarnae are not the only ones who received the power of Exaltation,” said Gaia, and a flower, easily half the size of Sollux himself, grew and bloomed in front of him. A similar one did the same in front of Aradia. Two shimmering lights, held back by a small swath of petals, danced in their centers. 

“Why us?” asked Aradia. 

“Because I need you, and Creation needs you. And if the world I gave birth to needs you, then your friends will need you as well.”

“Let me get thith thtraight,” said Sollux, holding up a hand. “You’re telling uth that becauthe we broke the game we were playing, we actually won, and that meanth we won at thethe ‘Gameth of Divinity’ and our reward ith to have to thave the world _again_?”

“You are not far from the truth.” 

“Well, fuck thith then. Thee you later, have a nithe life or whatever it ith you Primordialth have.” Sollux turned to leave. 

“Where do you plan to go?” asked Gaia. 

“Home.”

“You cannot. I already told you this.”

“Don’t fucking remind me,” growled Sollux. 

“Do you wish to have a home again?”

“Honethtly?” he sighed, turning back. “I jutht want to not have to deal with apocalyptic bullthit anymore.”

“I am afraid I cannot offer you salvation, if that is what you seek. But I can give you, here, the power to grant yourself something like salvation.”

Aradia walked up to the troll and placed a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly. “I know how you feel, Sollux, but I don’t think storming out is going to work, here. Besides,” she said, grinning and glancing back at the flowers, “don’t you want to see what happens?”

Sollux reached up and put his hand over Aradia’s. “Not really. I’m tired, AA. I’m tho tired. I’m tired of death and dethtructhion and putting up with whacked-out horthethit from fairy taleth for grubth.”

Before he could continue, a vine coiled up and around his other shoulder. “I understand, as much as I am able to,” said Gaia. “You are mortal, and I am not. But even I grow tired, sometimes. I know that I may never succeed in my quest, but I can tell you this much, Sollux. You are great, possibly even greater than I, for you know what it is to be weary of such things as you describe. I am all that I am, and can never be anything else. You are mortal, and you can change. Thus you can change the world. My power will help you, my child.” 

Sollux gritted his fangs, looking away from both Gaia and his friend. “I’m not your child,” he said. 

Aradia caught his chin and pulled his gaze back to her. “Sollux. Please. We walked away in the game, and it was fine for a while, but I think... now we have a responsibility. Our friends will be counting on us. And…” she trailed off, hesitating. “And I can’t do this without you,” she finished. 

Sollux heaved a sigh. Well… fine then. If she was counting on him, then he might as well. Not like he could fuck up any worse than he had before. 

“Fine. Let’th do it.” 

The two of them stood before the flowers that had been grown for them. The petals opened, revealing… Sollux couldn’t see what they were, really, but it didn’t matter. The light zipped out and away from the blooms, circling the two of them before plunging straight into their chests. 

==> Kanaya: Introduce your friends

“Kanaya,” said Rose, steadily, “perhaps you should explain a few things?” 

“Don’t worry,” replied Kanaya, “We’re not in trouble. Well. Yet.” 

“Forgive me if I don’t find that entirely reassuring.”

Kanaya put up her hands, palms out. “Relax. Especially you, Mr. English.” Jake stopped, halfway to drawing his guns. Eridan had already been stopped from doing the same by Feferi. “If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind putting up your weapons as well,” she continued, addressing the new visitors, “we can all discuss this in a rational manner.”

One of the men, apparently a translator, did so and relayed what the troll had said to the others. Reluctantly, they complied. 

Kanaya took a deep breath. “I have already explained to them that we are… not from here. They seem to be under the impression that we are raiders of some kind, though I can’t fathom why.” 

“Bloody hard to raid anything when we don’t have a clue where we are!” exclaimed Jake. 

“So I said, though a bit more tactfully. It seems that we have to report to a more central authority to present our case.” 

The man who had translated for Kanaya stepped forward. “This is true. I am called Tariq. You are… strangers here. We have had recent trouble with strangers. Please, follow m-” He stopped, staring at Eridan and Feferi, who had walked into plainer view. 

“Is there a fuckin’ problem?” snarled Eridan. 

“What? I- no, not at all. I did not realize you had… I apologize. My Riverspeak is not well practiced.” Rose raised an eyebrow at the word. Riverspeak? Some colloquialism for English, perhaps. “I believe the word is God-Blooded. I did not know you were friends with two.”

Eridan and Feferi looked at each other, thoroughly confused, then gestured wordlessly to themselves. Tariq nodded in return. After a moment of stunned silence, Feferi marched up to both Rose and Kanaya, took them by their sleeves, and dragged them away, politely asking to be excused for a moment. 

The heiress pulled the two into a huddle with herself, Eridan and Jake. “ _God-Blooded_?” she hissed fervently. “What in the hell?”

Rose remained as calm as ever. “I believe it may be in the local belief system that gods… intermingle with mortals freely. Given your vastly different appearances from Jake and myself, they probably believe all three of you are descended from one or more members of the local pantheon.”

Kanaya interjected. “I don’t think so. When they first met me they seemed to believe I was some kind of mutant.”

“In that case,” mused the human, “it’s entirely likely that they believe Eridan and Feferi to be descended from some form of ocean god. Or gods.” 

“Okay, fantastic,” said Eridan, “but what do we _do_ with it?”

Feferi looked at Rose and Kanaya. They seemed to come to a silent agreement. “I think,” said Kanaya, “for now, we play along. Or, at least, we don’t deny it. We’ll see how this plays out.” The huddle broke. 

Kanaya turned to the group of spearmen and apologized. “We needed to confer,” she explained. “Now, where were we?”

Tariq seemed not to mind the brief interruption, though some of his compatriots had narrowed their eyes. “If you will follow us,” he said, “we will take you to Solid Shell. It has been ordered that all outsiders are to be taken to Chieftain Bua-Shing for an audience.”

The other spearmen moved to surround the group. Since there was nothing to be done about the situation, really, the group trudged off along the beach, following Tariq. 

“How far is it to Solid Shell?” asked Rose. No harm in striking up a conversation to pass the time, after all. 

“Two hours,” was Tariq’s terse reply. 

“I don’t suppose you would mind telling us about it?” she pressed on. 

“You’ll see it soon enough.”

Thinking quickly, Rose decided to try flattery. “Well, if it’s anything like this island, it must be beautiful.” 

Tariq’s only response was a noncommittal grunt. 

Kanaya gave her partner a searching glance, one that asked what, exactly, she was doing. Rose returned the look with a slight smile, replying that she was trying to learn what she could. Kanaya shook her head. Now, it seemed, was not the best time. Rose simply shrugged and continued walking, with thoughts, possibilities, and theories ticking away inside her head. 

It was not long, perhaps twenty minutes, before the trek through the tropical forest led to another path on the shore. Sunlight glinted off of the waves as it rose high overhead. Birds sang in the forest as a cool breeze whipped past the group. Rose had never been to the beach before. She wished that her first time doing so were not under such strenuous circumstances. Eridan and Feferi, on the other hand, just missed being able to swim. Jake thought back to his time on his own island, and Kanaya found herself absent-mindedly designing swimsuits in her head. 

A shadow darkened the waters. There was a sound of rushing water, and the group found themselves overtaken by a massive ship, one clearly designed for long sea voyages. The sails seemed to be made of silk, and there were strange circular designs on them that looked like simple bulls-eyes, stitched in yellow. Coarse-looking sailors could be seen on deck as one of the officers shouted orders in a language none of the group recognized. A few of them seemed to notice the odd group, and leered or smirked over the bows at them. 

Still marching forward, Tariq muttered something that sounded suspiciously vulgar. 

“Trouble?” Rose asked good-naturedly. 

“None of your concern,” replied the guard. 

Struck by sudden inspiration, Rose raised the hood of her robes. “I think it may be mutually beneficial if you tell me about them,” she said. “I am, after all, a Seer.” 

Though he kept his gaze locked forward, the guard seemed intrigued, though he did a good job of hiding it. He laughed dismissively. “A seer? You?”

Kanaya chimed in. “Oh yes. One of the best. She’s the reason we’re here and not, say, at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Or in some beastie’s belly!” added Jake. 

Rose noticed Tariq’s free hand go to a shell necklace he wore, almost as if it were a reflex. Knowing an opportunity when she saw it, she pounced. 

Putting her hand to her head, posing like she had seen fortune-tellers do in the numerous awful movies her mother had liked watching with her, she hummed and spoke. “I sense… I sense that you have a loved one. Ah, yes, the one who gave you that necklace.”

Tariq let his hand fall. “You… how could you…?”

“I see that this person is very, very dear to you. A mother? No, a wife. Or she will be in the near future.” 

The islander fought back a shout of surprise. How could she have known about his plans to propose?

“But I see that ship is an ill omen for this person. And for you as well, and all your brethren. But that is all I see. The vision now fades,” she finished theatrically. It took everything she had not to burst out laughing at herself, and she suspected that Kanaya was hiding a smirk behind her hands, which she had clasped to her mouth as though she were in shock and awe of the great oracle’s vision. 

Tariq, as well as the other guards, stared at the group. The translator’s mouth moved, as though he couldn’t speak properly, until his voice began working again. “You… you really must be a seer then. I… how….” He shook his head in disbelief. “No matter. You should see Chieftain Bua-Shing as soon as possible.” 

The Seer was grateful that her hood hid her eyes. She may have been able to keep her smile held back, but the mischievous twinkle in her eyes would have given her away instantly. Still, she hadn’t exactly told a lie, and it hadn’t exactly been hard to guess the meaning of the necklace, especially seeing as how he had been touching it in a time of stress without thinking. The rest was obvious from body language and making a few reasonable guesses. 

“Perhaps I can be of help to your Chieftain if I know exactly what is on that ship,” she said. “My visions are never really completely clear. Such is the way of things with fate.” 

Signaling the others to start their march once more, Tariq sighed. “If you truly are a seer, as you seem to be, perhaps you can help. That ship holds people from the Scarlet Empire who demand payment from us.” 

At the mention of the word “empire,” Eridan straightened up slightly. 

“We are… hm. ‘Owned’ is not the right word. The Empire protects us and demands payment for it. Before it was nothing much. We only had to pay in cowrie shells, like we would any other. But now they demand that we pay them in jade.” 

“Must be jolly hard to come by out here,” said Jake. 

“We have no jade, and they will not accept our other offers. Now it seems they come to collect payment.” 

“Perhaps then we should hurry on,” suggested Kanaya. Nobody argued. 

==> Armored Explorer: Relax

It wasn’t the most upscale of drinking establishments, that was for certain. But then, he didn’t exactly care. They had alcohol, which was enough. It was strong, which was even better. And it was close to Chiaroscuro, which helped immensely. 

He had a job coming, but his contact had been preoccupied with an impending meeting. Very important client, this lady. Ulito Swan. An extremely important client, and one who had fought her way into her Heavenly position tooth and nail. Not someone who would want to be interrupted. And from the sound of things, this could take a while. 

But that was what Varangian whiskey was for, wasn’t it?

He tipped the glass back and let the fiery alcohol burn its way down his throat. Not quite the same as the good old stuff he remembered, but it’d do. Then again, he wasn’t sure there’d ever be anything that would match the good old stuff. Hard to have something when the knowledge of how it was made had died out centuries ago. 

He leaned back. Being a regular at this particular establishment, his seat had been specially reinforced. Quite the kindness from the owners. Didn’t hurt that it was saving them both some coin in the long run. 

The buzz of the place had faded into a background hum. He had never really understood how people could think Riverspeak had any elegance to it. It was too soft, too low-spoken. It lacked the sharp sounds and authoritative declarations of High Holy Speech. Flametongue got close, but it crackled too much. And he’d never liked Old Realm, even if he could find people that could speak it fluently. 

There was a sharp thump and a cry of surprise. His eyes narrowed. Something didn’t sound right. 

One of the serving girls had been backed into a corner. Some ugly bastard, probably hired on with one of the caravans, had slammed down his drink and was towering over her like she’d done something to offend him. 

Scratch that. A second look at the goon’s body language told a totally different story. One based in having too much to drink and not enough self-respect to have learnt some respect for others. 

As he approached, he could hear the goon drunkenly slurring something about the serving girl. Nothing pleasant, naturally. The onlooking patrons parted before him like two waves, though the goon and his buddies didn’t notice. 

For someone of his size, he could move quite quietly. By the time he was able to hear the serving girl squeak out her terrified protestations, he could have breathed down the offender’s neck. Instead, he settled for tapping the man on the shoulder. 

“‘Scuse me,” he said, “I think the lady asked you to leave her alone.” 

The man turned. Where he had towered over the serving girl, this newcomer towered over him. Had he not been belligerently drunk, he probably would have sat back down without a word. Even though most of his features were hidden by the worn desert cloak and hat, it was still obvious that he was built like a brick wall. Liquid courage had other things to say about that, of course, and none of them were pleasant. Or well-pronounced. 

“Go piss on a bull-shrine,” slurred the drunken lout. “I got conquestering to do.” 

He glanced at the girl. The eyes that looked back told him all he needed to know as the goon turned back to her. 

“Alright, maybe you didn’t hear her,” he said, almost growling and laying a huge hand on the man’s shoulder. “The lady said ‘no.’” 

The man spun around and threw a punch at him. He would have been surprised, or maybe even gotten out of the way, but he hadn’t needed to. The blow met a wall of solid scale. 

Tlatecuhtli very calmly lowered his hood. The massive Anklok reached down to where the man’s fist was still pressing up against his chest, gingerly took said fist in his own, and moved it, very deliberately, aside. Blazingly green eyes looked into the set belonging to the man, which were now widening in realization. 

With all the majesty and grace befitting one of the ancient and noble Dragon Kings, Tlatecuhtli leaned down and told the man, “Get out before you _really_ piss me off.” 

Unfortunately for the peaceful negotiations, one of the goon’s friends had decided to attempt hitting the Anklok with a chair. The sound of shattering wood was like an explosion in the silence. 

Tlatecuhtli turned, grumbling “now that’s just rude” before slugging the would-be attacker square in the face. The force of more than three hundred pounds of muscle and scaly plating sent the man flying out the door. 

A flurry of chaos ensued as the group of drunks, incensed by the blow, piled on to the large, scaled man. Glass bottles and even a hastily-drawn knife bounced off of his armored hide, and he bulled forward, carrying them out the door and into the street. The ill-advised attackers clung on, trying to make a more lasting impact than the minor bumps that were the results of their swings. 

The Anklok whirled as he carried them out the door, shaking one loose from the lock he had been trying to put his arm in. The scrawny thug landed square on his compatriot who had been punched out the door, collapsing in a tangle of limbs and bruising. Another of them had gotten his arms around Tlatecuhtli’s neck, and was doing his level best to choke out the Dragon King. This was made incredibly difficult by the sheer size of the neck in question, not to mention the scales. The third of the attackers was on his shoulder, trying to stab at his eyes with a jagged knife. Shaking his whole body and reaching over to pluck the knife-wielder off his shoulder, Tlatecuhtli kept his momentum going, whirling to throw off the man trying to choke him. 

With two attackers down, one flying into the dusty street, and the other in his clawed grip, the Anklok briefly thought about just setting the man down and letting him walk off his drink. The one who had been harassing the girl would have to be dealt with less mercifully, but all this one had done was… well, try to stab him in the eye. 

When he thought about it like that, it really wasn’t much of a reason to let him escape unharmed. Tlatecuhtli dropped the man on his feet and pulled his arms in, raising his fists in a classic posture. His shoulders swung back and his knees bent, ready to launch him in any direction necessary. 

The knife-wielder, after taking a moment to catch his balance, lunged forward. Tlatecuhtli tutted under his breath. The man’s form was incredibly sloppy, and he led with the knife rather than keeping it close to his body for control. It was almost insultingly easy for the Anklok to shift aside, letting the blade glance off his scales, and deliver a stunning body blow. Coughing and gasping in pain, the man dropped the knife and fell to the ground. 

Tlatecuhtli straightened up, rolled his neck, and twitched his tail. The mace-like appendage swung out from under the cloak and slammed into the midriff of the man who had been sneaking up on him. He heard the air blast from his attacker’s lungs as he turned. It was, of course, the man he had approached in the first place. 

Bending over the prone, wheezing man, Tlatecuhtli grinned. With a single massive hand, he lifted the man clear off the ground by his shoulders, letting him dangle as he fought for breath. 

“Now, I don’t like to get over the top when it comes to violence,” said the Anklok. “But in your case you’ve been pretty offensive. Back in my day, you understand, we settled things like this with duels. Loser had his heart carved out. Sounds like fun, right?” The man shook his head as best he could. Tlatecuhtli shrugged. “Ah well. Been a long time since my day anyway. But that still leaves a question: what am I going to do with you?”

The Anklok tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Well, judging from your little stunt back in there, I’d say you don’t have a great idea of how to handle yourself. If you can’t use ‘em responsibly, then maybe you shouldn’t have ‘em in the first place.” Watching the highly illustrative hand gestures with sheer terror in his eyes, the man tried to object with a voice that had fled in fright. It came out as a terrified squeak. 

“What’s that? Speak up, because it sounded to me like you said ‘yes please.’ What? No? Oh, well, since I can’t _really_ hear you say it….” He made a move and the man tried to shrink out of the titanic grip. It didn’t work. 

Tlatecuhtli dropped the man and loomed over him as he lay in the dirt and dust. “So, what have we learned today about manners?” He grinned as wide as he possibly could, showing off his very pointed teeth. The terrified man fainted dead away. “Thought so.” 

The Anklok quietly returned to his seat indoors, closing the door as gently as possible and counting out some extra silver to pay for the broken chair and the trouble, as well as an extra tip for the poor serving girl. It had to have been a hard day for her. 

==> John and Roxy: Meet the Syndics

“So where are we goin’?” Roxy asked their erstwhile tour guide. 

Rune brushed some of his fiery hair out of his face, replying, “Before we meet with the Syndics, there was actually somewhere I wanted to take you two. Nothing special, just following up on a hunch.”  
For his part, John was too busy actually looking at the city around him to ponder what this hunch might be. The streets were surprisingly empty and quiet. The frosty air only made things seem quieter, and it felt to John like the city was holding its breath. He looked up to the sky and saw a beautiful blue canvas, unmarred by any clouds. The sunlight shone clear and bright, as the sun itself sat over a towering set of gilded spires. One of the towers still had a ladder propped against it, which John could see as they got closer and closer. 

“We’re going to the temple thingy?” he asked. 

“While I’d never call it a ‘thingy,’” replied Rune, “yes. We are indeed going to the Central Temple. I want to see something.”

“And what might that be, hmm?” Roxy wonked conspiratorially. “Got a plan hatching?”

“Just… confirming a suspicion,” was the hesitant reply. 

Within ten minutes of brisk walking, they reached the steps leading up to the temple. Rune gestured for the two to walk up the marble steps towards the main door, which bore an intricately-carved bas relief of a sun. 

“Go on, kids,” he said. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

“So why aren’t _you_ going up to it, huh?” asked Roxy, suspiciously. 

“Because I already know it opens for me,” he answered cryptically. “Just go on up and try the door, if you don’t mind. That’s all I want.” 

Sharing a confused glance, the two teens just shrugged and proceeded up the steps, albeit cautiously. 

The door dwarfed them entirely. Looking up to the top of the door required them to nearly bend over backwards. Neither John nor Roxy could see any handle or any way to open the titanic thing, just by looking at it. John decided to try pushing at it. 

A gentle push yielded nothing. Cracking his knuckles, John braced himself fully against the door, and heaved. Still nothing. Lodging his shoulder against the door, he shoved again. Yet more nothing. Before Roxy could say a word, he held up a finger, backed up, and took a running start before crashing into the door. 

Nothing, except for the young man sprawling back on the marble, dazed. 

Knowing full well the rules of comedy, Roxy opted to lean casually against the door. She was immensely disappointed when it didn’t creak open for her. Frowning, she gave it a kick, and was rewarded with a sharp pain in the foot. 

Rune rubbed his forehead. “Well,” he said, marching quickly up the steps to retrieve his charges before they injured themselves further. “That answers that. Thank you, you two, come along….” 

The trip to the Syndics’ hall was made in silence. Roxy tried to favor her aching foot, and John was nursing his bruised ego. Rune, meanwhile, was trying not to let the mild headache he had been developing worsen. If these were the two his vision had been about, then his city was in very deep trouble. Possibly more than if there had been no vision at all. 

The hall itself sat back among buildings that looked ancient, as old as the white granite walls that had towered over them ever since they’d first stepped out onto the streets. Something in the air near the place felt… charged. Perhaps it was simply the authority of the place and those it housed, radiating out from it like heat from a stove. For the first time since his fateful nap on his quest bed, John felt awed. 

Soon, the trio found themselves waiting in an antechamber hung with rich tapestries, depicting strange figures evidently ruling or administering stranger figures. The same sun symbol hung on other tapestries, but the most prominent was a circle cut into eight segments. Maybe it was the symbol of the city. Idle speculation did little to help them, however, and neither one was willing to ask Rune any questions. He seemed preoccupied. 

After a tense span of time, a young woman in priestly robes entered and told them to follow her. She led them to a room where three of the strangest figures John and Roxy had ever seen were seated around a table, with three open chairs opposite them. 

The seated figures looked like men, aged but not wizened, with noble brows and imperious, hawk-like noses. Their stern lips were set in firmly neutral expressions, and their eyes gazed calmly and steadily at the new arrivals. These features would not have been so strange, but for the fact that they were carved out of the clearest ice, covering clearly-visible bones of pure silver. The effect was startling, to say the least, and both of the teens unconsciously shrank back behind the man who had brought them there. 

The center figure gestured at the seats, and spoke in a voice like wind through a cave of ice. “Rune. We have expected you and your guests. Please, all of you, be seated.”

John and Roxy had to be coaxed to actually sit down with the figures. The figure on their left spoke, reassuring them that they were not in trouble. “You would not be here if we believed you to be a threat,” it said. 

“We are the Syndics,” said the figure on the right, “and we govern this city to bring it peace, health, and good fortune.”

“Rune,” said the center Syndic, “explain to us why you believe these two to be special.” 

Rune leaned forward in his seat, bowing. “Of course, my lords. As you know, these two were found on city rooftops without having been seen in the city prior. They are as mortal as any citizen within the walls, and yet they have no knowledge of our city, or of Creation itself.” 

“We require proof of your claims.” 

“Of course. John, would you mind telling me what language we’ve been speaking for the past few minutes here?” 

“Umm… English?”

“And Roxy,” Rune continued, pulling a small map out of his pocket and unfolding it on the table, “would you mind pointing out where we are on this map?” 

Roxy looked it over. Not one single bit of geography looked right to her, not even from what she could remember from before the game. “Uh,” she stammered, stalling for time. “Maybe… here?” She pointed to a random spot on the northern edge of the map. 

Rune looked at the Syndics expectantly. Their faces did not move. 

“Alright, if you want further proof,” said Rune, rolling his eyes, “ask them what the Fair Folk are.” 

“We do not require further proof,” said the center figure. “We wish to know what you intend by this.” 

“If you’ll recall, my lords, I received a vision from the Unconquered Sun on the steps of the Central Temple.” 

“We remember. Your vision carried a message of warning, telling you to watch for strangers to Creation.” 

Rune merely gestured to the teenagers seated on either side of him. 

“Point taken,” said the rightmost figure.

“My vision told me that these strangers would prove to be of the utmost importance to the safety of our city, and Creation itself, and that the doors of the temple would open for them.”

“And have they?”

Rune coughed. “Well. Um. No. Not yet at least.” 

All three Syndics hummed in thought for a moment, in perfect unison. They stopped, all curiously looking at John, who had raised his hand. 

“Erm, excuse me,” he said. “But what’s an Unconquered Sun?”

Rune gestured at him, giving the Syndics a look that quite plaintively asked if _now_ they believed him. 

The Syndics looked at one another. 

“Er,” said the center one. “The Unconquered Sun? Sol Invictus? The Most High? King of Heaven?”

John continued to look blank. It wasn’t difficult. 

“One of the Incarnae.” 

Still nothing. 

“You were found on top of one of his greatest temples!”

“Oh! Well, that would explain the sun symbol on the door, then.” 

Despite their mask-like faces not moving, it was evident that the Syndics were in shock. Finally, it was the one on the right who spoke. 

“We see your point, Rune. Perhaps there is something to your vision after all.”

“I had hoped you would see it that way, my lords.” 

“What do you intend to do now?”

“Well, with all due respect, I had also hoped we could discuss that in private.”

“Of course,” agreed the center one. “Children, if you please.” 

Wordlessly, John and Roxy got up and left the chamber, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Having closed the door as gently as they could behind them, the two sat in silence in the atrium, wondering what exactly they had been caught up in.

After what seemed like hours, the two jumped out of their seats as Rune suddenly popped the door open and strolled - not walked, _strolled_ \- out. He clapped his hands together excitedly. 

“Alright, kiddos. Time to take you to your new home!”

“Wait, what?” John asked. “You’re just… you’re just going to take us somewhere without even telling us what that whole meeting was even about?” 

“Well,” admitted Rune, “I was planning on saving the announcement until you got home, but I suppose I can tell you now. Congratulations, kids, you’ve got jobs!”

==> Larcenous Starweaver: Observe

The hooded man glanced down at his scrolls. Yes, this was it. This was the loom-strand that he had found before. 

It had always been there, but really it hadn’t always been there last week. Godsdamned Loom of Fate. Even the spiders had agreed, or most of them, at least. Still, for all his cursing of the Loom’s workings, it had been advantageous that he’d noticed the strand, and nearly twoscore like it. As bizarre as the strands were, they all had one thing in common that he had been able to decipher - they all pointed towards the Games of Divinity. Or, more accurately, they came from the Games. 

He plucked gently at it, seeing the vibrations. Slowly, he stilled it, laying his face near it to look along its length. As he got closer to it, he could hear whispers, voices, though he could not tell which belonged to the person represented by this strand. He could hear waves, and smell salt air. A brief flicker of ash-blonde hair and orange fabric passed in front of his eyes before fading into a sea of luminescent green. 

The shadowy man straightened up, turned, and examined another strand near the first one. Curiously, he heard the same waves and smelled the same air, but this strand faded into obscurity rather than giving him any clear visions. 

A third and fourth, both of great curiosity to him, seemed to vanish almost as rapidly as they had appeared. And yet there was still a brief stretch of loom-thread, though in these cases they were very brief. This concerned him. 

He bent down to examine a fifth. Sharp cold met his cheek, and he could feel hot blood pulsing down the thread. A sixth matched the two dozen others that confused him, feeling alien and hard where the strands of others felt familiar and soft. Even the threads of beastmen and the People of the Air had some familiarity to them, but these… they did not. 

Mentally bookmarking the location of these threads, the hooded man slipped off into the shadows, destined for some other part of the Loom. 

He soon found what he was searching for. More threads, a tangled mass, starting in the very near future. There were not even the barest traces of infancy on these, as though the people they represented sprang into existence as youths. They too felt alien and hard, and they all unraveled from one strand as tough and unyielding as a steel cord. He had no idea what sort of thing this strand was. 

Ah, here. The threads of some of these new arrivals crossed here, with this morass. He followed one, back towards its origin. This one felt like _blue_ and _breeze_ and just the slight bit clumsy and naive. And yet when plucked, it sang like a note from a divine choir. 

Wait, what was this? The thread crossed with another. What in Creation could this be? It felt hard, but friendly. Almost like….

Well. That was interesting. The man felt a sudden pull towards the odd, alabaster-pale being who had recently shown up in his division. She (for that was evidently how she identified, and how he knew this, he had no idea) made clicking sounds where she walked, and had apparently been appointed to assist in his department’s mail deliveries. And she was not the only one. Others, some with the same shell, while others had pitch-black ones, had shown up without a word from on high. Stranger still, the celestial city had two new fixtures floating above it, in gold and purple. 

Curious, the man looked back along the thread, beyond where the two met. It stretched back, but when he tried to see where and how the two had first crossed, or even why they now crossed, he was met with a wall of solid jade. Damn. 

Listening carefully for the tell-tale click of the spiders, he sought out another strand. Had he been less practiced at remaining silent, he would have cursed under his breath. Another of these. That made three of these damnable strings. They were clearly present, thus they were clearly meant to represent something or someone, but they gave him no indication as to who or what they were, like something was blocking him from seeing anything. 

Nearly twoscore new threads for people tied directly to the Games, and yet none of them yielded any answers. And that was for the people alone. Other things tied in to these strings of Fate, and yet their origins were equally obfuscated. 

Ah well. He had never been one to back down from a challenge. 

Silently, he moved along a shadowed walkway, ducking out of sight from another as he heard voices coming from along it. 

“Hurry, hurry, damn you! I’ve orders to find four threads as soon as possible!”

“I’m aware, Vizier, but-”

“No, no excuses! These are orders from Kejak himself!” 

Four threads? Kejak? Oh, now this was getting interesting. A quick moment of thought and a brief focusing of his Essence sent a tiny, emerald spider off from its invisible perch on his shoulder and into the Loom. In moments, he felt its return. 

So Kejak was looking for the destined inheritors of soon-to-be-available Sidereal Exaltations. Interesting. As he moved back towards the place he had originally been studying, he sent the spider off once more, wondering which poor bastards were going to be forcibly retired from their positions. 

By the time he had reached the original strand, the spider returned. It whispered an apology, but it could not find such information. Oh well. At least the man knew it wouldn’t be him. He kept a close eye on _his_ particular thread. It didn’t do to have nasty surprises, especially in his line of work. 

Unfortunately, he found a surprise waiting for him at the strands. Three of the pattern spiders had settled in, their mandibles clicking in mild irritation as they sensed his approach. And he’d been so careful this time. 

He put up his hands defensively. “I’m only looking, you know,” he said. There was more clicking. 

“Yeah, yeah, relax. This is important.” 

Click, click-click-click, click-click. 

“Because nobody else seems to be investigating these.”

Click click click-click?

“You ask that like you don’t already know.”

Click click. Click click click click-click click. 

“Believe me, I have a lot of reason to be concerned about this. You’ve seen the strands; you know what they’re like.”

Click click-click click click-click-click.

“To Hell with that being only your business. It’s my job to make sure there isn’t anything threatening about them.”

Click click click. 

“Maybe you’ve forgotten how much I’ve helped you before.”

Click click cli-

“You know what I mean. Not you specifically but the spiders in general.”

Click. Click click.

“That’s what I thought. Trust me, I don’t want to make your jobs harder.”

Click click click-click click-click click. 

“Why do you think I never use Charms to get in here?”

Click.

“Besides the obvious.”

Two of the spiders crawled away, having duties elsewhere within the Loom, while the remaining spider rolled its mechanical eyes. 

“And how many times have I brought myself to the point of one of you biting my thread?” the man pointed out. 

Click click-click click. 

“Exactly. All I want are answers.”

A rapid series of clicks ensued, in a lecturing tone. 

“Just… just answer a question for me, alright?”

There was an exasperated click. 

“Why are there suddenly four Sidereal Exaltations that are going to change hands soon?”

The spider hesitated, its components whirring. After a long pause, it answered in a series of low, secretive clicks. 

“Hmmm. Alright, thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a prophecy to work out.” 

The man left the Loom, winding his way back to his quiet office. Before he could accomplish anything else, he found a sealed order left on his desk. Gritting his teeth, he opened it. 

“Garet,” the letter said, “giving you a heads-up. You’re going to be on training duty. Kejak’s orders.” It was signed with a complicated sigil in Old Realm. 

Garet grinned beneath his hood. This was getting really quite interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Lore Charm names make great chapter titles for the exposition dumps, right?
> 
> Anyway, this is the way I'm going to be handling chapters in the future - less talking about everyone at once, and more focusing on one or two different groups at a time. Plus telling some stories about some other significant people that they're going to meet. 
> 
> Speaking of, in case people were curious as to what the two original characters in this chapter sound like, Tlatecuhtli's dream voice for me is Ron Perlman, while Garet is voiced by Stephen Russel. In case you don't know either of them, Ron Perlman is Hellboy (both the live-action and animated one) while Stephen Russel is famously a certain Thief (original trilogy, not the rebooted crap-pile that they tried to push on us) and also appears as the master of the Thieves' Guild in Skyrim. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the Eyes of Heaven are upon the players....


	3. Synergy-Promoting Upgrade

Once, there was a maiden who was alone.  
She survived on her own  
And made friends with beasts  
But she longed for a friend to talk to  
One day, she sent out a message with a bird  
And received only one reply  
“Loneliness does not last forever,” she said.

==> Dirk: Greet a somewhat familiar face

Dirk paced the cramped room, measuring it with his feet for the umpteenth time. Though his face wouldn’t have shown it, he was trying to keep a cap on the raging storm of profanity and frustration boiling in his mind. The dim light certainly wasn’t helping him think, but he’d be damned if he’d actually take off his glasses. 

Inwardly, he sighed. It would be the only emotional concession he’d make at the moment. At least the cyborgs or whatever these people were had been polite enough. Well. A given value of polite, anyway, which was more than he probably could have realistically expected. 

He wasn’t sure if the total absence of his auto-responder was a good or a bad thing.

The door of the room opened, showing him the silhouette of the imposing man made of black metal. 

“You will come with me,” he commanded. Dirk obeyed, not that he had a choice. He followed the figure - Reach, he thought he’d heard him called - down a small, huddled corridor of metal that echoed with clanging and ringing. The room they arrived in was, at least, somewhat more open, and had a table and some chairs. It had little else besides the people already occupying some of those chairs. 

Dirk’s face didn’t move, but he swore. If he were less careful, then perhaps the others might have been able to feel the profanities he was mentally screaming. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with that asshole. Anyone, even the deranged clown with the ridiculous codpiece, would have been preferable to that asshole. But of course he’d been stuck with him. 

Seated at the table with him were the other weird mechanical people that Dirk had been “greeted” by. If they hadn’t been potentially hostile and he hadn’t been fighting nerves so frayed he felt like he was about to fall apart at the seams, he might have considered trying to study them. 

Dirk sat in silence so subtly sullen an observer would have needed a full course in microexpressions just to detect it. The troll was seated across from him, probably by design, to keep them from conspiring. Dirk was glad of his shades, keeping his eyes hidden as he scanned the room and watched everyone’s faces. 

The tension in his shoulders hurt, but not as much as something unexpected might. Just because he didn’t have his sword drawn didn’t mean he wasn’t on a potential battlefield, no matter what form that battle might take. 

The silver man, Bulwark, leaned back in his seat. Like almost everything else here, it was made of metal. “Well, you two. It seems we’ve come to a bit of an impasse here. Neither one of you know where you are, and none of us know who - or what - you are, exactly. So, I’m opening up the table here. If anyone has any ideas of what to do, I’m open to them.” 

Neither Dirk nor Equius were entirely willing to speak up, and the other people in the room were similarly silent. Bulwark and Clarion’s faces were masks of impassivity, while Reach’s face was a more literal form of mask, one that was totally blank except for the reddish sheen marking the vertex in the middle. Perhaps they were trying to let their two “guests” speak for themselves. When no answer was forthcoming, however, the one that had retrieved Dirk raised his hand. 

Bulwark sighed. “Alright, Reach. What’s your contribution?”

“Put them to work,” said Reach simply. “They can join a low-priority team. Something like lever-pulling, perhaps. They can prove their value and are in no great position to cause serious harm.” 

“That is… well, it’s not what I was expecting you to offer up.”

“You already denied me permission to use the Mind-Ripping Probe on them.” 

“Good point.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Dirk interjected. “I’d rather not be sentenced to hard labor for life without an actual charge.” 

“Perhaps you would rather be probed?” asked Reach. 

“Hell no. Keep your metallic fuckery away from me.” 

Before Reach could object, a thunderous crash shook the building. Everyone froze. 

There was another crash, this time enough to knock over the table and send everyone in the room to the floor. 

“What in the Maker’s name is going on?” shouted the golden woman - Clarion, Dirk recalled. 

Her answer came in the form of a mechanical roar as an enormous creature, like something out of a machinist’s worst nightmare, tore down the wall. It paid them no heed, instead passing them by like they were totally unimportant. 

“Damn!” shouted Bulwark, hauling himself upright. “Cogwheel dragon! Reach, start getting the Populat out of the way! Clarion, contact Six and get some backup on its way immediately, then start containment procedure 413!” Reach silently stood up and melted into the shadows. 

“What about Press?” Clarion shouted back. 

“He’s still getting checked over. If he can get out here, great! But we can’t count on him just yet.” 

“Roger that, boss. En route now.” In a blur of gold, Clarion sped out of the room through the wrecked wall. 

Dirk and Equius stood up and dusted themselves off. Dirk’s katana flashed into his hand as he headed towards the opening after her. 

“Hold it,” said Bulwark. “Where the hell do you two think you’re going?”

“Where the hell else?” Dirk retorted. “After the thing that just wrecked this room.” 

“No. Don’t even think about it. You two are in my custody and you are not going to get killed while I’m responsible for you.”

“Do you have a better plan?” Dirk swung his blade up across his shoulder. “I’d guess that thing is going to cause a big mess, and you sound like you’re shorthanded. And what was Tall-Dark-and-Vader saying about us proving our value?” 

“Damn it, I don’t have time to argue this. Fine. You two want to try handling yourselves against an elemental, be my guest. You obviously have a better grasp of what you can do than I do.”

“Damn right we do.”

“Take this with you.” Bulwark tossed a blue crystal disk to Dirk, who caught it deftly. “Stick it on your ear. I’ll be in touch.” 

“Sure, whatever.” Dirk swept out through the hole and, reluctantly, followed the instructions he’d been given. The jewel adhered itself to his ear, fitting naturally over it. 

“Excellent,” it buzzed in Bulwark’s voice. Dirk repressed the urge to jump. “Seems there’s more to you two than I thought. Watch your backs.” 

Dirk shrugged, well aware that Bulwark (probably) couldn’t see him. 

The sound of shrieking metal was deafening. Metal plating, evidently from one of the buildings, crashed down, narrowly missing Dirk’s hair. What was more important than an impromptu haircut, however, was the source of the rampant destruction. 

It looked like a classical dragon, albeit without wings, made entirely of polished brass in plates, covering grinding gears and hissing pistons. People in heavy clothing were running for their lives as streets and buildings were crushed underfoot. In the darkness above, Dirk could hear wires snapping. 

Clearly, this was going to be a problem. 

Dirk’s grip on his katana tightened as he ran, dodging bits of debris. He could hear the lumbering footfalls of his troll “friend” following behind him. Too late to do anything about that now. He’d just have to hope he could keep up. 

Dirk vaulted onto a broken ledge. The metal dragon’s tail swept overhead, crushing a nearby wall. Rubble fell towards them, only to be parted by expertly-timed swings of the unbreakable blade. Another stomp shook a huge chunk of debris loose. 

Dirk gritted his teeth. It was too big to cut. He’d have to trust himself to move fast enough to be out of the way. 

He tensed to spring, but found that he couldn’t move. 

Suddenly, he felt himself being forced to the ground. It wasn’t a harsh, violent pressure, but it was, in a word, inexorable. 

Dirk hit the ground at the same time that there was a thunderous crack overhead. Shards of debris rained down around him, leaving him completely untouched. 

He looked up. Equius was kneeling down and offering him a hand up. The penny dropped, and Dirk accepted the hand. 

Not one for words when action was needed, the human nodded his thanks to the troll. The troll returned the nod, and they were off again.

In the distance, a group of people in military-looking clothing took up position facing the dragon’s flank. An order was barked, and they opened fire with some kind of crossbow. Bolts whistled through the air, to no avail. The shots pinged ineffectively off the brass hide with as much impact as rain on a skyscraper.

The dragon turned. The soldiers began withdrawing as its head reared back. The dragon spat, and a storm of razor-sharp metal, all cogs and gears and scrap, hit the fleeing soldiers like a shotgun blast ripping through a paper target. Screams of agony rang off the buildings. 

The crystal hung over Dirk’s ear buzzed again. “We’re in position to cut it off. Where are you?”

“Behind it,” he answered. He paused. “It seems pretty pissed.” 

“I heard the soldiers.” Bulwark’s voice carried a heavy weight with it. “I hope you have a plan, because I don’t want to be responsible for your deaths.” 

Dirk didn’t respond. Instead, he turned to Equius. He had an idea, barely even a part of a plan, but “crazy enough to work” was a thing of his. 

“Just how strong are you?” he asked the troll. 

“Er. Extremely.”

“Good. Toss me.”

“... I beg your pardon?”

Losing patience, Dirk grabbed Equius’ arm and put the clammy, broad hand on his own shoulder. “Pick me up and throw me at that thing!”

“Er. If you’re sure.”

“Just do it already!” 

Hauling the slender teen up by his armpits, Equius obliged him. 

Dirk wheeled over in midair before landing solidly on the dragon’s neck. He nearly slipped off the smooth metal, but, thinking quickly, he jammed his sword clean through one of the plates. The dragon bellowed in pain, twisting violently to shake him free. 

Fortunately, Dirk’s grip on his katana was as unbreakable as the blade itself. He didn’t need to focus on keeping his grip for long, thanks to a sudden shock riding up through the beast’s body. As it turned, Dirk could see Equius standing over the crumpled remains of a section of its tail. 

The dragon advanced on the troll, lowering its head to menace this new thread. Equius stood his ground and cracked his knuckles. 

The crystal buzzed once again. “What in the Maker’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“Distracting it!” Dirk snapped back. Feeling the monster’s neck flex, he sprung off and into the air, just before it snapped at Equius with jaws filled with jagged metal. 

The troll calmly swayed to the side before slugging the dragon square in the side of its face. The massive head jerked away, flakes of metal skin and bits of broken teeth flying into the surrounding wreckage. Dirk landed smoothly on the outcropping he’d jumped for, pausing only a moment to coil his body to spring again, launching himself blade-first at the still-stunned monster. Twisting to add more force, he swung for the neck and carved a chunk out of the steely flesh. 

The dragon roared in pain and twisted to face Dirk, who had sailed past and landed neatly in the rubble-filled street. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as he danced past the snapping jaws, slicing at the dragon’s face as it went past. He hadn’t scored a direct hit, but it was angrier now. 

Good. 

Before it could pull its head back to strike again, a chunk of rubble smashed into the back of its neck, roughly where Dirk had landed his first blow. Hissing like steam, the thing turned to see Equius hefting another sizable piece of wreckage. The troll hurled it with the speed and accuracy of an Olympic athlete, but this time the dragon blinked its crystal eyes and sheets of metal unfolded from within its articulated face to shield it. It barely flinched as the hunk of fallen machinery bounced off. 

Dirk sprang, this time aiming for the gaps in its armor. He gritted his teeth as the katana bit into a section of gears, tearing loose the ones that weren’t cut clean off. This thing was damn well made. He made a mental note to punch whoever built it in the face. 

Suddenly, both he and his troll companion found themselves smashed into walls. The thing had moved like lightning, spinning and hitting Equius with its ruined tail and bulling Dirk off his feet with its powerful neck. The teenager felt a warm trickle down the side of his head as he staggered out of the crater he’d been left in. The sensation was overridden by the appearance of the dragon’s teeth not six inches away from his face. Dirk looked into its eyes, and it looked as though it were smiling. 

It stopped. Just as Equius, who looked as though he had fared even worse than Dirk had, brought a fallen building support down on the dragon’s head, the head wasn’t there anymore, as though it had seen the attack coming. But how could it have, when it had been focused on Dirk? 

He pushed the questions aside. He had to focus. It would have been easier if the crystal hadn’t buzzed yet again. 

“Well, you’ve got it contained, I’ll give you that. Keep it there. Out in the open if possible. We’re getting set up to finish this.” 

Inwardly, Dirk sighed. He had to hope that whatever Bulwark and his crew were doing, they knew what it was. He rolled under another slashing bite, taking the opportunity to cut at the joints behind its jaws. 

The enormous head snapped upwards, having been struck by Equius putting his full power into a bone-shattering uppercut. Acting quickly, Dirk pointed up. Equius nodded. 

The human jumped forward, into the waiting cupped hands of the troll, who catapulted him upwards in a perfect toss that would have made any elite drill team weep at the sight. 

Dirk used the momentum to turn himself upside-down in midair, pointing his blade directly at the dragon’s reeling chin. Point met brass plate, followed by feet. The shock of metal shearing through metal rippled through Dirk’s arms, but he held on. He’d dealt with worse. 

Once again, he was whipped around as the dragon tried to rid itself of the tiny thing that was causing it so much pain. Suddenly Dirk was regretting this plan, as the roars that issued from its brassy throat rang through his head and started to weaken his grip. To make things worse, the crystal buzzed, starting a dull ache around his temples. 

“You might want to let go,” said Bulwark. Before he could question why, a tremendous _boom_ nearby sent the dragon’s head snapping to the side, nearly flinging him off into the dark alleyways below. His sharp eyes picked out Reach on one of the rooftops, loading another shot into what looked like a ludicrously large siege bow, mounted on his arm. The black metal man took aim and fired once more. 

Dirk was glad he’d gotten used to ripping his blade out of tough materials before now, because if he hadn’t, he would have been knocked clean away from it by the force of the blast that hit the dragon. Thankfully, he had been just fast enough to tug it loose and drop before impact. 

Using an old trick that logically should not have worked, but always somehow did, the teenager rammed the blade into a nearby wall as he fell. The shock of the blade suddenly meeting a lot more friction than the air was always hard to endure, but he held on. A third blast rocked the air above him, and he pulled himself loose to fall not-so-gracefully into a relatively soft spot on the street below. 

The dragon had turned its attentions to the mechanical man firing at it, only to take the brunt of another thrown bit of wreckage from Equius. Working together, the two kept the brazen monster from noticing Clarion below it, illuminated by bizarre characters floating in the air around her. Moments later, she gestured defiantly at the dragon, displaying a single open palm towards the beast.

For a moment, Dirk wondered what exactly in the hell that was supposed to accomplish. After that moment, a blazingly red web of some unknown material issued forth from Clarion’s outstretched palm, wrapping itself around the dragon with the vicious hiss of rapidly-heating metal. 

The dragon thrashed, quickly becoming tangled in a mess of the sticky red substance. The battle had apparently weakened it, and so it gradually succumbed to the terrible heat, sinking to the ground as Dirk emerged from the side street. Not willing to let it simply melt then and there, he began running. Who knew if it was capable of coming back from this? He wasn’t going to take that chance. 

With a final, exhausted leap, Dirk hurled himself at the monster’s face. He landed square on its muzzle, looking it square in its crystalline eyes as he hefted his sword. In any other situation, he might have said something, but he didn’t want to give it the dignity of any quipping as he drove the blade home, right between its eyes. 

The last of the dragon’s struggles stopped, and Dirk pulled his sword out of the metal corpse. He hopped neatly over the sizzling red strands that still entangled the beast, to find that Bulwark was waiting for him. 

“Well,” said the silver man. “I’m impressed. Nice work you two.” He nodded at Equius, who was already hauling wreckage out of the street. “I’ll take the crystal back, by the way.” 

“Yeah, sure,” mumbled Dirk, taking it off of his ear and tossing it back to its owner. “So what the fuck was that thing’s deal?”

“That’s a good question. Elementals don’t usually attack cities or even outposts - not ones that are this close to major population centers. And cogwheel dragons are more like sentinels than wandering beasts….” Bulwark stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Someone must have done something to lure it here. Whether it was on purpose or not….” 

Reach melted out of the nearby shadows. “Sabotage is likely the reason. I will begin investigating.” 

Bulwark nodded. “See who here knew about why we came here in the first place.”

“Already processing.” Reach returned to the darkness. 

Equius had stopped working to politely raise his hand. Bulwark nodded to him. 

“I was wondering,” said the troll, “what exactly do you plan to do with the remnants of this, er, cogwheel dragon?” 

“Why do you ask?”

“Well.” Equius cleared his throat awkwardly. “I had hoped that if it were at all possible, I could have some of the leftover materials to study. I… have some experience in the field of robotics and the building of automata, but I’ve never built anything quite so complex as this.”

“I think…” said Bulwark, sharing a significant look with Clarion, “that I would very much like to see what your experience entails.” 

==> Mechanical Maiden: Complain

“Hey. Hey. Hey Biki.” 

“Fury, I thought I told you I wasn’t comfortable with you using my Populat alias when we’re not in private.” 

“It’s the only way to get your attention when you’re working on your instrument, dammit.” 

The Moonsilver Alchemical put the curious object in question aside to look at her Orichalcum companion. “What do you need?”

“Look at this report I just got!” In her hand was a crystal slate. She waved it like a flag, making it difficult to actually see what was on it. Otobiki Utameshi, who was officially known as _Glorious Maiden of Song’s Call_ , pointed this out. 

Reluctantly, _Infuriating Messiah of Industry_ settled down and handed her the slate. “Look, just got this in from scouts out near Yugash.”

Otobiki scanned the report, eyes narrowing more and more with concern the more and more she read. The initial incidences were not so worrisome, but as it continued on….

Oh. Oh dear.

“A cogwheel dragon? Alone, and unprovoked?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

Otobiki considered the possibilities. Very few of them were any kind of good. 

“I don’t suppose Luka would have any insight?”

Hearing its name mentioned, the hood of the metallic coat that Fury was wearing perked up and formed itself into a pointed, draconic head. A small mechanical chirping issued from its “beak.” 

“That would be a no,” Fury translated. “She’s not closely related to the big guys.” 

“I see,” said Otobiki, hand on chin. “Well, thank you anyway, Luka.” 

Luka chirped and resumed duty as a hood. 

Otobiki picked up her instrument again and began tuning it absent-mindedly. Something about this was very, very wrong. It didn’t have the same wrongness to it that Voidbringers did, thank the Maker for that, but something still felt… off. 

Her tunings were interrupted by a sudden weight on her back and shoulders, and on the top of her head. 

“Fury?”

“Yeeeeeeees dear?” 

“Why are you on my head?”

“Because you’re gloomy. You’re no fun when you’re gloomy.” 

“I’m trying to think.” 

“Well don’t think gloomy thoughts, then!”

Otobiki put her instrument down once again. Perhaps Fury was right. Gloom and pessimism would do little to help here. Perhaps all she needed to do was look forward…

She stood up, dislodging Fury and nearly knocking her over. “I’ll be back soon,” she said. 

“Where are you headed off to all of a sudden?”

“I’m going to go see the Tripartite. I have an idea.” 

==> Jade: Strife!

Jade leapt backwards just in time to avoid a spray of twigs and branches as the Woodsie Lord’s “pet” charged into the clearing. In the blur of motion, it looked like a mass of fangs and bristling fur. Skidding through the dirt, she brought her rifle to bear as it pounced again, bearing down on her like a pack of wolves bundled into one beast. 

She dodged as she fired, and the bullet bit into the beast’s hide, spattering the ground with steaming crimson. Unfortunately, this did nothing to slow it down. The enormous thing kept charging, looking more and more like it were made of nothing but teeth and claws and raw predatory instinct. 

Jade fired again, so focused on hitting her target that she didn’t see the flying animal carcass colliding, head-first, with the Woodsie Lord and his entourage. 

Another burst of crimson failed to stop the monster’s charge, and Jade hurled herself to the side, rolling through the dirt and twigs. The beast was too quick for her, swatting her into the air. Miraculously, the claws didn’t manage to pierce her robes, but she landed hard, skidding into a tree. Breathing heavily, she pulled herself upright, swinging her rifle up to face a slavering maw capable of swallowing her whole… or at least _mostly_ whole. 

There was a blast of foul breath as the beast collapsed on its side, bowled over and winded as Nepeta cannoned into it with the force of a springing tiger. The troll rolled off the monster, carried by her momentum, and Jade was amazed at the grace with which she rose into a fighting crouch, metal claws glinting like they were alive. 

The beast thrashed, working its body upright once more. Vicious, yellow eyes flicked back and forth, like the animal mind behind them was trying to decide which morsel it was going to try to devour. 

With a nod, Jade and Nepeta agreed to not give it a chance to decide. 

The troll pounced once more, aiming higher this time. Jade fired, opening another wound, this time in the beast’s leg, drawing its attention to her and giving Nepeta the opportunity to land unobstructed on its back. 

The beast roared in pain as Nepeta put her claws to work. Firing again, Jade could swear she could see a wide grin on her companion’s face as blood and flesh flew under her weapons. 

Jade’s ears perked up. Under the roars and snarls… there!

She turned and took aim once more. The Woodsie Lord and his minions had drawn weapons, and the look on the Lord’s face transcended rage. 

Taking this information into account, Jade proceeded to not care. She fired, and the squat, armored figures scattered. 

Behind her, Nepeta planted her claws in the monster’s neck and used them to anchor herself as she swung herself down and under its head. Blood loss was beginning to slow it down; now it was time to go for the kill. She clamped her knees around where she thought its windpipe was, burying her claws in the heaving flesh as she sought her target. 

Hah! There!

Ripping both claws free, Nepeta put all her considerable strength into a sweeping cut across the beast’s jugular. As it reared up in agony, she kicked off, neatly rolling as she landed, despite being positively drenched in blood. 

All action in the clearing froze as all involved watched the Woodsie Lord’s prize pet choke on its own blood. The monster thrashed, then merely struggled, then collapsed with a final pathetic cough. 

Nepeta’s savage smile hadn’t moved an inch. Neither had the Woodsie Lord’s mask of fury. Slowly, he raised a slender, elegant sword that looked like it had been spun by a spider. He pointed it directly at the troll, and gave a single, quiet order: “Kill her.”

His minions immediately charged at Nepeta, who merely sprang into the underbrush. They clanged after her, leaving the Woodsie Lord to face Jade. 

Slowly, he advanced on her, sword held frighteningly level with her throat. “I had planned,” he said in a voice dripping with barely-restrained rage, “on perhaps letting you live if you evaded my pet. But now I see you will look better as a decoration for my next pet’s pen. Or perhaps I will merely devour your soul and use what’s left as a maidservant for mucking out the gutters.” 

Jade grimaced, sighting down the barrel of her rifle. There was an inhuman shriek from the woods and the swish of someone leaping through the trees. Leaves drifted lazily down from overhead. 

The Woodsie Lord lunged quickly, far too quickly for any human. Fortunately for Jade, her thoughts were faster. She focused on one of the leaves, and _saw_ it somewhere else, _saw_ something in its place…. 

The Woodsie Lord’s blade buried itself in the branch that had suddenly appeared in front of it. The unexpected weight pulled it to the ground, and he was smart enough to roll with it, under the shot that Jade had immediately fired. Another shriek sounded in the distance, followed quickly by another, weaker one. 

Jade dashed away as the Lord taunted her: “Your mutant pet is finished!” She moved quickly, but she suspected that her opponent’s reach was much greater than he would deign to reveal. He was too quick for her to land a clean hit on him in a straight fight, and they both knew it. She’d have to outsmart him. 

Not that it would be all that hard, she thought to herself. 

As the enraged Lord pulled his weapon free, Jade pointed her own at the pile of wood she’d gathered and pulled the trigger. Sticks and shattered fragments of wood flew everywhere. As the Woodsie Lord shielded his face, Jade looked at one of the logs she’d felled for the shelter…. 

There was a bone-jarring impact, followed by the sharp report of a rifle firing. 

The Woodsie Lord’s sword dropped to the ground, followed by numerous drops of a strange, technicolor fluid. 

Jade calmly reloaded and took aim once more, pointing the gun’s barrel directly at the wounded Lord’s face. 

“I’m not going to miss this time,” she said flatly. 

The Woodsie Lord spat, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “Fool,” he said. “My minions are returning now with your mutant pet’s head on their pikes.” 

There was a soft _thud_ behind Jade, followed by two more. 

“Do mew mean like these?” Nepeta asked, having tossed a trio of warty, green-skinned heads to the ground. She was still smiling the exact same smile from before. 

As Nepeta advanced, Jade thought she saw something at the edge of her vision. She looked up, and wondered why the sun had apparently set early in the afternoon. 

The impending fate of the Woodsie Lord was forestalled by slow, steady applause. Jade and Nepeta turned to see a very strange figure at the edge of the clearing.

He - and he _was_ evidently male, despite appearing to be several months pregnant - was a tall troll with curved horns that swept back behind his head of ash-white hair and eyes that glowed with a pure silver light. The smirk that lit up his face could have brought a person to their knees, or caused them to burst into flame from sheer humiliation. He wore a robe of silk so white that it almost glowed, and didn’t seem to walk so much as glide over the ground. 

Jade and Nepeta weren’t sure what to do. The Woodsie Lord had frozen in stark terror. 

The newcomer smiled wider, and spoke. “Well done, ladies, well done. I loved your performances in the Games, and I have to say you do _not_ disappoint!” 

He paused. “Ah, yes. Excuse me. I do get ahead of myself sometimes. Couldn’t wait to congratulate you and I ended up cutting you off before you could finish this business. Do accept my apologies for being so rude.” 

He strode over to the Woodsie Lord, who looked as though he were trying to scramble away, but his limbs had completely failed to work. The newcomer lowered his hand, and the Woodsie Lord vanished in a dazzling burst of silver. 

The stranger straightened up and dusted off his hands. “Now that business is concluded, on to pleasure.” Still bearing the magnificent grin, he bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. While I wear this face, most call me the Two-Faced Bride.” He began walking towards the duo, his - or her - features, body, and voice shifting and changing like waves on the ocean’s surface. “Sometimes I’m known as the Bloody Huntress.” Now, she stood as a tall, muscular human woman with piercing eyes and bearing a bloodstained bow. “I might also be called the Horned Watcher.” The bow vanished, and her hair became long and ragged, and she grew vicious, goring horns and fierce talons. “I have many names and faces, but the simplest of them is this: I am Luna. And you, my dear girls, have done what few can. You’ve impressed me.” 

==> Jane: Learn

Jane tried to breathe easily. It wasn’t working. 

Lost in a totally foreign place, with only a couple of trolls she didn’t know for company, and already in trouble with what looked like the police. Truly, a great start to not being mind-controlled by a nigh-immortal alien fish-empress with a baking fetish. 

At least Terezi and Vriska had explained things on their way to wherever these people were taking them. All in all, though, things didn’t look good. 

The office they were taken to was located in what looked like the docks district. Curiously, however, there was no smell of saltwater hanging in the air. Wasn’t there supposed to be? Then again, smog choked the skies overhead, so perhaps she wouldn’t be able to detect it anyway. 

They’d been taken to a stone cell, deep within the building, with only a couple of wooden benches for decoration. Vriska was currently lounging on one, while Jane and Terezi were sitting in awkward silence on the opposite one. 

Jane was worried, to say the least. Terezi was ominously silent, and the former heiress could only guess at what kinds of gears were turning in her head. 

In between considering an escape and thinking that she should try to argue her way out, Terezi was wondering if Senator Lemonsnout had been back in that alley. 

There was a knock at the door. Cavan, the one who had found them at first, entered. He gave them a sheepish little half-smile. 

“I’m, uh, really sorry about all this,” he said. “We really didn’t have anything better.”

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine.” Terezi dismissed whatever the issue might be with a quick gesture. “So tell me, what exactly is going to happen now?”

“Well, we’re… not really sure. We don’t usually do anything like this in Nexus. It’s a bloody rat pit, if you catch my meaning.”

“I think I do.”

Jane took the opportunity to speak up. “I don’t suppose you could tell us where we are? We’re a bit lost.”

Cavan paused a moment. “When you say ‘lost,’ just how lost do you mean?”

“Speaking for myself, I haven’t the faintest clue where I woke up. Or where I was before that.”

The guard blew a sigh. “I take it that means you’re not really from Firewander.”

Grinning like a piranha, Terezi pointed out, “Well, we never _said_ we were.”

“And your friend isn’t really sick?”

Right on cue, Jane sneezed thunderously. 

“... okay then. And medicine?”

“Well, we couldn’t wake her up.”

“I- fair enough. Emissary’s balls, you could be a barrister….”

Terezi’s grin grew by several pointy teeth. 

“As for where you are, er, well… welcome to Nexus, ladies. Biggest trade city in Creation. You want it, you can buy it. If you want to stay here, you’ll need the silver to survive. And not break the law.” From the sound of it, he’d given this speech before. “Even if you want to leave, you’ll still need to pay for passage out. And if you want my _personal_ advice, steer as clear of the Guild as you can. They do business - any kind of business - as long as it’ll turn a profit.” 

Jane didn’t like the sound of that. Or, well, any of it. 

“And before you ask, no, we can’t hire you. The boss won’t let anyone who isn’t a full-blooded Nexus citizen join, and none of you have any evidence to back up the claim, even if you could lie to him convincingly. Course, even if you did, he still might not let you in. He’s… a bit of a bastard.”

Terezi waved it off. “Oh, we’ll manage, I’m sure. Do you mind if we stay here a little longer? Just to work out a plan.” 

“I guess it won’t hurt. But we can’t keep you overnight, see? You’ve got to clear out by nightfall. Er. Sorry.”

Terezi kept grinning. “Oh, don’t worry about it. We won’t need more than an hour or two.” 

Cavan shrugged and excused himself, saying he was supposed to be watching the front desk in case someone came in with a job. 

Terezi turned to face the others as Vriska pulled herself upright. “So,” she said. “Thoughts?”

“We seem to be in a right old pickle, and no mistake!” said Jane, slumping.

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Vriska. 

“Well I don’t see you making any suggestions, you raggedy, spidery floozy!”

“I-” Vriska stopped, confused. “Are those real words?”

Terezi rapped her cane on the floor. “Ladies! You can hate-flirt _after_ we have a place to sleep for the night.” 

“What?”

_“What?”_

“If you’re ready to move on, perhaps we should tally our assets?”

Vriska continued to splutter, while Jane just looked confused. 

“No objections? Good. I’ll start.” She held out her cane, unsheathing the hidden blade. “I still have this.” 

“Oh, well, in that case….” Jane mentally fished for her sylladex. The oversized blood-red fork, complete with shining, cloud-filled orb, popped into her hand. “Ah! Yes, here it is.” She wished it hadn’t been this particular weapon, but at least she had something to defend herself with. 

Vriska opened her hand with a dramatic eye roll to show off the Fluorite Octet. “Okay, now what?” she said, stowing the dice in some hidden pocket. 

Terezi took a sniff. “We have my nose.” 

“Great,” retorted Vriska. “You can _smell_ your way around.”

“And you can’t,” Terezi replied smoothly. “Just like everyone else here.” 

“Alright, fine. But I’m still absurdly lucky.”

“Good! Now, Miss Berry Blue Cotton Candy, it’s your turn.” 

“Well, I, er, suppose I could say that I can cook.”

“Potentially useful… once we have a way to procure ingredients.” Terezi stroked her chin. 

“There’s always stealing,” Vriska suggested. “Or relying on humans’ weird concept of pity.” 

“What, you mean like… begging?” Jane raised an eyebrow. 

“Hey, if it works. I mean, _I’m_ not going to, but you two could probably pull it off.” 

“Stealing would raise too many questions. When things go missing, someone investigates. And begging wouldn’t be reliable. Who says we’d get what we needed? Or if we’d get anything at all?” 

Something about Terezi’s argument caused a spark inside Jane’s head. She thought back to her favorite stories. What had the protagonists needed again? Yes, that’s right. It was a long shot, but….

“I… may have an idea,” she said. Both trolls looked at her - Terezi, expectantly; Vriska, bored. 

Jane swallowed and continued. “Well, I always fancied myself a bit of a detective. I could nearly always solve the mysteries in the books I read before the end of the story, and I always kept my detective skills sharp. And, as you’ve both pointed out, we’ve also got a good nose and a lot of luck. I’d say we’ve got a good start on a detective agency. Although,” she added, “I don’t think the stories were quite intended to be literal when they talked about having a nose for crime.” 

“Too bad,” smirked Terezi. “It’s such an advantage.” 

“Okaaaaaaaay,” said Vriska. “But don’t we need, oh, I don’t know… a case?”

Terezi looked at Jane. 

“What?”

“ _You’re_ the human detective expert.” 

Jane pondered. “Well, it can’t hurt to ask our hosts, can it?”

Vriska looked skeptical. “Didn’t that guy say they wouldn’t hire us?”

“I believe he meant as members of his group. They might very well have a problem that they’d be willing to have us tackle.”

“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Terezi concurred. “I have a couple of questions I need to ask anyway.”

The grinning troll stood up and rapped on the door. One of the guards answered with a grunt. 

“We’re just about ready to go,” she said as sweetly as she could manage. This was more than a little bit frightening to hear. “We’d just like to talk to our friend before we leave.”

The guard nodded, pointing the way to the front desk. 

Cavan had busied himself with a book, pointedly ignoring the extremely empty front hall. He perked up upon hearing the tap-tap-tap of Terezi’s cane. 

“Done already?” he asked, looking up from what must have been a riveting chapter. At least, more riveting than the room in front of him. 

“Almost.” Terezi gave him a smile she probably thought was reassuring. “We just had a couple of questions.” 

In response, Cavan gestured at the vacant space where clients might have stood if they were totally invisible and immaterial. 

“Excellent. First question: would you happen to have a copy of the local laws?”

“Er… I might, yeah. Probably a few days out of date, but the important bits will be there.” He started fishing through the desk’s contents. 

“Fantastic. Second questions: do you know any good places we might stay for the night?”

“I thought you might ask that,” he replied. “So I made a list for you. Even sorted it by pricing.”

“Even better!” Terezi cackled. “Final question: any chance there’s a job or two we could do?”

“... what kind of job do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, something that needs investigating or looking into. Maybe something that’s a bit outside your usual area of expertise?”

Cavan sat for a moment in silence. Finally, he asked, “who told you?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Who told you about the Latian job?”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Cavan blew a sigh. “You three must be the luckiest guessers in the Scavenger Lands, then.”

Vriska smirked. 

“We got a job request a couple days ago. Something… started happening here in the city a couple weeks prior. Murders.”

Terezi perked up. 

“Not just back-alley stabbings or rich bastards offing their wives to marry their mistresses, either. These were… creative.”

Terezi perked up more. 

“Incidentally, that’s why we had to get you out of the alleys. New Civilities saying people can’t gather in suspicious places. Alleys included. Er. Anyway. All of us mercs are on contract with the Council of Entities to find out what we can - us Hooded Executioners especially, since we’ve got the policing contract already - but a man, name of Jhaq Latian, wanted to hire us to launch a full investigation. We told him it wasn’t worth putting our necks out for the kinds of things that might happen to us. But if you three want to risk your hides, well, no skin off my nose.” 

Looking at the grin on the girl’s face, Cavan wondered if one of her parents had been a shark beastman. For her own part, Terezi was holding back a veritable hurricane of cackling. Oh, _yes_. This was _perfect_. 

Cavan fought back the urge to hide from those glinting teeth. He swallowed and said, “I’ll, er, get our file on the case.” 

“Oh, please do,” said Terezi. 

“Er… you’ll probably need directions to Latian’s house….” 

“That would be helpful.” 

The hardened mercenary cleared his throat nervously. “I also had, er, a little something….” 

“Oh?”

“Just… something to help you three get on your feet. A gift.” He pulled a small sack of coins out of his pocket and placed it on the stack of documents he’d piled up. “It’s not much,” he said, “but it should get you a rickshaw to where you need to go, at least.” 

“Oh. I.” Terezi faltered. Gifts were not a thing she received often. 

Fortunately for the troll, Jane picked up the slack. “Thank you,” she said, taking the pile of items. “That’s really quite kind of you.” 

“Eh, it’s… it’s really not much.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Go on, get moving. The bugger lives halfway across the city and you don’t want to be out after dark.” 

“We won’t be,” promised Jane. 

Within minutes, the trio had hired a rickshaw and were on their way to meet this mysterious Jhaq Latian. 

==> Thousand-Year Queen: Finish your business

Ugh. This whole afternoon had been so dreadfully _boring_.

The woman voiced this complaint out loud, before pausing for thought. 

“I mean, _really_ ,” she continued. “I haven’t had a decent bit of excitement in weeks. No, wait, months. Hmmm. I suppose that was kind of exciting,” she mused, thinking back to several months ago, when she had evaded an army’s scouts. 

“Well, even so, it still wasn’t that exciting.” The woman lifted something on her broad shoulders, hauling it behind her as it dragged on the ground. 

“There was that time in Coral, but I really don’t like swimming all that much. It’s too bad, the sunset was rather nice that day. I suppose.” 

With a wet _thud_ , the woman dropped her burden on a pile of similar burdens. “How long ago was Coral? Must be years.” She paused to count off on her fingers absentmindedly. “Ah, no, more like decades. And everything since then has just been dull. Dull, dull, dreary, and dull.”

She made a face, speaking as though bile were rising in her throat. “It’s enough to make me want to _puke_.”

“Really,” she continued, “the absolute least that people could do is point me in the right direction for something exciting. But noooooooo, they just have to try and run away, or entertain me themselves.” 

The woman, who was dressed in rough furs, kicked the corpse she was standing over. “Idiots. If I had an obol for every stupid bastard who thought that they could entertain me….” She paused. She didn’t know what she’d do with money. She didn’t really need it. “I suppose I’d just give it all to whoever challenged me next and tell them to buy some training.”

She barked a laugh at her own joke. “Hah! Yes! Good idea. Or maybe make it a prize for whoever beats me.”

“On the other hand, people might get suspicious if nobody ever gets to claim it.” She gave this due consideration. 

“Ah, fuck it. If that happens I’ll just throw it at someone and tell them to use it to raise the greatest warrior in Creation. Maybe _that_ would work. Could be worth it. I’d have to wait a while. But then, I’ve already been waiting a while.” 

She kicked the corpse again, this time addressing it directly. “Hey! You! Don’t know if you can hear me anymore, but maybe you’ve got an idea? Somewhere I can go and fight someone worth my time?”

She hunkered down and picked up the body, shaking it. The head lolled on its broken neck. “Silent? Hah! You were screaming plenty not too long ago!” She callously dropped the body before kicking it away. 

“You know,” she said to her surroundings, “I remember when you all were a halfway decent challenge. Worth my time. Or something like it.”

She sighed, theatrically shaking her head. “But that had to have been… what, centuries ago? I can’t even remember the last time someone did more than nick me. It’s like you can’t even find someone capable of hitting my fucking _clothes_ anymore. What happened, huh?”

The woman thought for a moment, then giggled. “Oh yeah. I probably happened to a few of you. Oh well. Maybe next time I’ll let someone go so they can train harder. Yeah, that might do it.” 

She skipped over the weapons that had fallen on the ground in bare feet, totally unconcerned for the assortment of razor-sharp metal and jade she trod on. “How long do you Dragon-Bloods live again? Can’t be more than a few hundred years. I seem to recall someone telling me that.”

She stopped. Her eyes narrowed. “Ah. Yes. I remember now. Someone told me that right before one of you _traitors_ -” Here she picked up another corpse by the throat, crushing what was left in a single hand. Blood splattered over her face and dripped off her hand. “ - went and cut his head off!”

She dropped the corpse, which was now even more mangled. “But that’s fine,” she said, suddenly calmer. “I mean, you gave me one of the best fights of my life. Hmmm, though I guess it’s been so long that it can’t have actually been any of you, can it? Must’ve been your great-great-grandparents.” 

She spat on another carcass. “Maybe they had the wedding over the corpses they left! Sounds like something they’d do. If they didn’t just pull each other over and fuck on the pile of bodies.” With a vicious kick, she beheaded the corpse and sent the head into the bushes. “Whatever. I’m getting away from my point.”

She cracked her neck lazily, turning around to face the scattered, broken corpses of over fifty people, each one wearing the remnants of fine armor. “What was my point? Oh yeah.”

The woman leaned over what had been the leader of the unit. “You guys are fucking boring. I can’t even believe how lazy you’ve all gotten.” 

Picking up the commander’s body, she threw it at three others, all piled under a shattered tree. “It _used_ to be that your lousy-ass Wyld Hunt could get my heart pumping. Didn’t even take a full unit of you! One or two actually got me excited! I might live, and I might die! How’s that for exciting, huh? But that was over five hundred fucking years ago!”

She turned, licking blood off of her fingertips. They had been claws only a minute ago. “And _now_ I don’t even need most of my Charms to make you all shit your fancy pants in terror.”

Pondering a new train of thought, the woman laid back on a small pile of bodies, using it as a chair. “Hey, there’s an idea. No Charms. That might be exciting.” 

Glaring down at the remains, she muttered, “Then again, you all were a waste of my time anyway.”

She stood up. “Wonder where I am now. Can’t be that far away from the bordermarches. You cowards won’t touch them with rusty pikes.” 

Something glinted in the tableau of slaughter the woman had been lazily pacing through. Curious, she knelt and fished it out of the spilled viscera. It looked like some kind of scroll, sealed with scarlet wax. The seal had been broken, and the calligraphy was stained with copious amounts of blood, but some of the message, written in an unfamiliar language, was still there.

The woman absently twirled her hair around one of her fingers as she deciphered the text. Slowly, a grin broke out on her face. 

“Ohhhhhhhh,” she said. “So _that’s_ where you’ve all been coming from. I was starting to wonder.”

The woman, who had once been known as Reshiava Thousand Fangs, and probably still was, licked her lips. “Maybe if I go _there_ I’ll get the fight I’ve been looking for.”

Reshiava crouched over the corpse she’d looted. “Thank you so much for this! I’ll be sure to give all of your friends and masters your regards.” 

As she stood up, she mused, “Now, which way was west? Oh, yeah.” She leaned back, craning her neck backwards and looking over her shoulder at the carnage behind her. “Don’t bother getting up,” she drawled. “I’ll find my own way there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter scratches the action itch that I've been leaving un-scratched for a bit. Dirk and Equius get to kick ass, Jade and Nepeta get to kick ass, and we get introduced to a batshit Lunar who's already kicked everyone's ass. 
> 
> When it comes to the first segment, with Dirk and Equius, I recommend listening to "Time on My Side" from the Strife! album while reading it from about... eh, right about where Dirk first takes off running towards the cogwheel dragon.
> 
> The "Mechanical Maiden" is a character belonging to a friend of mine, who is not only one of my beta readers but basically responsible for this whole mess thanks to some late-night BSing. You know who you are, you devious person. 
> 
> For those who aren't aware, the threat the Woodsie Lord levels at Jade is a reference to how the Fair Folk will eat the souls of their victims, by devouring their dreams, and use the soulless shells that remain for worse-than-slave labor. And that's the short version of it. If the Fair Folk in question doesn't feel like making it mercifully quick, they can stretch out the torments for months, even years or decades if they're creative. On the other hand, I think Nepeta is having too much fun killing things for it to be healthy....
> 
> Astute readers may notice that I made a couple... alterations to one of Luna's forms. Don't worry, it's not just a small detail change. It's important. It'll be explained... eventually. 
> 
> I'll be the first to admit that I'm having a hard time writing for Jane. Terezi comes a bit more naturally, but Jane and Vriska... well, it's partly that they haven't really had an opportunity to shine just yet, but also they're a bit harder for me to write. Terezi THRIVES in the crime-ridden environment of Nexus. The other two... not so much. 
> 
> Don't know if it comes across via the text, but Reshiava there is doing the infamous "SHAFT head tilt" at the end. I had a lot of fun writing her character, though I have to say a couple character traits slipped in when I wasn't looking. Namely, the hatred of Dragon-Bloods, though that's understandable given her past. Although I'm rather mystified as to how Ladd Russo's rotten sense of humor crept in. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the eyes of Heaven are upon the players....


	4. By Pain Reforged

Once, there was a maiden who made a friend.  
She shared secrets and desires  
And learned the secrets and desires of her friend.  
But in her heart she bore one truth that she would never share.  
To reveal it would be her undoing, she thought.  
Time passed, and her hidden truth was spilled for all to see.  
Though she wept, her friend dried her tears.  
“To know another is to accept oneself,” she said. 

==> Viridescent Princess: Study the curiosity

Ooh, he was just… just… _fascinating_. 

He looked like nothing that she had ever seen before. In fact, she would bet that nobody had seen anything like him until now. But it wasn’t his physical appearance that held her fascination, intriguing though it was. No, she was far, far more interested in what lay beneath the gray, tough skin and wiry black hair and strange horns that were currently held in a chrysalis of pure Essence. What she was interested in was his soul. The mountain of scrolls, written in elegant script in a blend of four different languages all at once - words from some, sentences from others, the grammar of others at different times - attested to this. She clutched another scroll, muttering to the verdigrised calligraphy brush floating nearby; it scribbled as furiously as she spoke. 

Eyes that burned green like cuprous torches stared at the bizarre little being held fast in the virulently green case of crystallized Essence - his Chrysalis Grotesque. It still hissed and bubbled with vitriol on occasion. She’d only gotten to witness the full process of the Chrysalis once before, and now she was getting to see what would happen to something almost completely alien, but not so alien that the Exaltation would fail to take hold. 

She had seen an experiment in non-human Exaltation before. The results had not been pretty. But she had learned a lot from it!

Her heart burned with the desire to crack it open herself. In theory, it would be easy. She could break it open and watch the process of binding demon to human - er, humanoid - and the Investiture take place, but she had been put under the strictest of orders to refrain from doing so. This was too important to her masters. She didn’t want to contemplate the punishments they would inflict upon her for disobeying. And waiting for five days, five whole days, would be so hard. The temptation was incredibly strong. Still, she had other ways of conducting examinations….

Invisible hands, formed of tendrils of pure thought, probed and poked at every aspect of the crystalline structure she could reach. Teeth gritted in frustration as her efforts were totally denied by an invisible barrier, extending…. She ran some quick mental calculations. Yes, it must be about six inches away from the subject’s body. That alone was informative, but how she longed for more information….

Her attention was caught by a slight change within the chrysalis. Something in the swirling Essence had shifted, and she could see the body within stirring ever so slightly…

First Daughter of Emerald Light leaned in closer, and saw Karkat’s eyes twitching below the surface of the Essence-shell. Perhaps he was dreaming?

She wondered what aliens like this one dreamed about. 

==> Karkat: Listen to the crystal

There was… a memory.

It twinkled in the crystal, glimmering like a distant star. 

Karkat wanted to go towards it, but he couldn’t move. He felt as though he were dreaming, dreaming like he had before the game, before his awakening on Prospit, before the Dream Bubbles. 

Is this what life was like before Sgrub? 

As though responding to his thought, the memory flashed towards him, glinting and darting like a dragonfly. It swept up to where it felt like his face was - it had to be his face, didn’t it? - and paused, almost as though it was examining him. 

The memory’s iridescent, phantom wings twitched, and Karkat saw

A blade of purest orichalcum cut the air, like a scythe cutting wheat, and brilliant crimson blood stained the sky. 

Foolishness upon foolishness it had been to stand against the laws of Creation. Damnable Yozi cultists had brought ruin upon a village far from the Blessed Isle, but the reach of the Lawgivers knew no limits. Especially if Jade-Clawed Owl had anything to say about it. 

The Southerner panted heavily in the sunlight, sinking his blade, Twice-Forged Sunray, into the grassy hill beneath his feet. That was the last of them. They’d tried to escape retribution for the murders of children in their sacrifices, hiding behind trickery, intimidation, manipulation, and deceit, but Jade-Clawed Owl had never failed to find the truth. 

Truth was everything to Owl. Without it, there could be no justice, and the innocent would suffer false accusations. 

Though he looked young, scarcely out of his twenties, the dark and handsome man was in actuality soon to celebrate his hundred and twelfth birthday. He hoped he would not be away from home for it, though he would answer duty’s call if it came. 

He looked at the scene that surrounded him. A dozen men and women, all guilty of abduction and murder, stopped from using their crimes to summon a terrible monster from the pits of Malfeas by his timely intervention, lay dead - cut open and broken - by his hand. Two were pinned to the ground by long, green-fletched arrows, but the remainder had necessitated a fight in closer quarters. 

Owl sighed heavily. How he wished such bloodshed need not happen. Without pausing to wipe the blood spatters off of his spectacles, the young man set about preparing a burial rite. It was the least he could do. If he were one of the Resplendent Suns, it would take but a touch to send these poor souls to their rest, but such was not his gift. He was instead a Descending Sun, marked by genius and insight rather than holiness and wisdom. 

He swore to himself that this would never happen again. 

The memory jumped. 

There was screaming and crying. A man and a woman clutched at a limp, small body, and Jade-Clawed Owl could do nothing but watch. 

He had been too late. 

Two hundred years of vigilance, and only now he had been too late. 

Yes, there had been the villages where foul cultists had already been at work, but this time… this time he had a chance. This time a life could have been saved. If only he’d been faster. If only his mind had pieced together the clues more quickly. If only… if only. 

Owl sat on the floor of the ransacked hut, and stared at nothing. He couldn’t break down here. A Lawgiver did not weep at their failures. 

He couldn’t fail again. 

With a flicker, the memory changed once more. 

Cursing, Jade-Clawed Owl struck the parchments and scrolls from the desk. The infuriated man stopped just short of flipping the rare wood end over end, and settled for slamming his fists down on the bared surface. 

Ten thousand damnations! Why? Why could he not understand? Years of failures had led to decades of research, trying desperately to understand why Yozi cults kept springing up. They were like some kind of tainted hydra - for every one he put down, three more would surface, taking innocent lives along the way. 

Every survey, every census, every last scrap of research, and nothing! Not one solution!

Furious with himself, Owl whipped off his spectacles and made to hurl them across the room. His arm stopped mid-throw, held back by a familiar hand. Bregan Dark-Eyes, his longtime Lunar comrade-in-arms, had stopped him. 

“Owl,” said Bregan, smiling kindly, “what ails you? I hardly think you would have reason to swear a vendetta against your own good vision.” 

Owl took a breath to steady himself. The fairer man’s Northern accent was an anchor of familiarity in the heaving seas of frustration.

“All this work,” he said hoarsely, “and nothing. I’m no closer to understanding than when I started.” 

“Rest, then. Look in a mirror, look at your eyes. I know you are tired. How long has it been since you last slept?” 

“What day is it?”

“Saturnday.”

“... which month?”

“Which… month?” Bregan was plainly shocked, muttering an oath in Skytongue. “Owl. Bond-brother. Rest.”

“I’m fine. I need to know-” 

“You are _not_ fine!” Bregan’s voice slipped into a snarl. “What in Creation could be so important that you would work yourself to death?” He forestalled the scholar’s argument with an outstretched palm. “I know it’s about the cults. But you’ll never do any good if you’re exhausted beyond the ability to think!”

“I-” Owl stopped. “Yes. You’re right. I can’t observe. Not now. And my experiments….” He shook his head. “Yes. Rest. That would be good.” 

The Lunar put his hand on Owl’s shoulder. “Take a break from all this. A few weeks. Maybe a month or two. Until after Calibration, perhaps? There’s a feast coming up, something grand….”

The man’s voice trailed off as the memory misted over, fading into a grand hall, filled with people of all kinds, feasting on things Karkat had never believed could exist. There was laughter, and music, and dancing. The hall was decorated with gilded pillars and glinting frescoes in the five colors of jade, hung with the richest tapestries and set with perfect, crystal windows. 

Through Owl’s eyes, Karkat watched helplessly as he looked up at a glint in the rafters. 

The arrow struck true, and Owl fell. 

If he could have moved, Karkat would have screamed and raged. Tears would have welled up in his eyes. Bile and spit would have choked him, keeping his furious protestations at the unfairness of the world at bay. But the crystal held him fast. 

It told him more. 

==> Tavros: Stand your ground

The bull-horned troll wondered how this could be worse. There could be snakes, of course. It was hard to beat snakes in the “making it worse” category. About the only thing worse than snakes would be Vriska. 

One of the rifle-toting men gestured at him with it and barked an order in a language he didn’t understand. 

“Uh, I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“Speak Riverspeak?”

“Um. Yes? Apparently.”

“Put the dream opal back and step away. Slowly. Hands where I can see them.” 

Tavros glanced at the stone in his hand. Gingerly, he put it back in the box. 

“Mind telling us what the trouble is, Officer Krupke?” said Dave, who was still as deadpan as ever, despite having half a dozen weapons pointed at him. “Only we got a curfew and can’t be out too late or Momma’s gonna be mad.” 

“Shut up,” said the leader. 

“Well Krup you too then.”

“I don’t have time to talk with smugglers.” 

“Oh, is that what we are? Huh. Last I checked we were lost and trying to get out of the heat. Not that I mind the rap. Being called a hardened smuggler’s good for my street cred, yo.” 

Tavros could see a twitch developing on the man’s face as he glared at Dave. “Does he always ramble like this?” he growled, apparently to no one in particular. 

The troll shrugged as well as he could, given the circumstances. “Yeah. Pretty much all the time.” 

“Great,” the man muttered sarcastically. 

“Look.” Tavros had decided to interrupt before Dave could make their captor angrier. “We really aren’t, uh, smugglers. Um. We just… found this. I swear. Totally by accident.” 

“Seriously, you think I’d be wearing these if I was a smuggler?” Dave gestured at his God-Tier robes. “Shit gets itchy out here. There’s sand in places I didn’t think there could be sand.” 

“Alright,” the rifleman snarled, “open your mouth again and I’ll fill it with fire. You’re coming with us. Outside, now!”

The duo was pushed back out into the searing sunlight. At least a dozen more men and women, all armed, had surrounded the little hut. A caravan had been set up not far from the entrance. As soon as they exited, half the guards hustled in, presumably to inspect the contents of the crates.

Tavros and Dave were “escorted” to one of the wagons, and directed to climb inside. The troll was glad of the shade - the sunlight outside was blinding. It wasn’t as bad as Alternia’s, though. It was strange, but Tavros felt like this sun was almost… welcoming, if a bit harsh to his nocturnal senses. 

Inside the cart, a sharp-eyed woman greeted them with a nod. She looked at the man who pushed them in, giving him a silent cue to explain. 

“Found these two inside, popping open the crates. I think we’ve got our smugglers, ma’am. Or at least a couple of them.” 

The woman hummed thoughtfully, digesting this information. “And do you have any additional evidence?” 

“Well. Er. No.” 

“Understandable, I suppose. Ah well.” She turned to the duo. “Let it never be said that I’m unfair. I want to hear what you two have to say.” 

Tavros repeated his testimony, adding Dave’s point about their clothes. “We really don’t, um, have any idea where we are,” he added. “So if you could at least tell us that much we’d, uh, really appreciate it.” 

The woman raised an eyebrow. “You’re lost? And yet you somehow stumbled on a hidden cache of dream opals and firedust - goods which, I might add, have been going missing from my shipments. It’s gotten quite costly, and the Guild officials above me are getting… anxious.”

Tavros blinked in confusion. “Um… sorry, but what kind of guild is this?”

“ _The_ Guild.” 

“Okay… uh… the Guild of what?”

The rifleman and the woman both blinked. 

“Are you trying to play at ignorance?” shouted the former. “If this is meant to be a joke….”

“Damas. That’s enough.” The reprimand was spoken softly, but it was still sharp enough to cut the threads binding the man’s anger. 

“... yes, milady,” he acceded. He holstered his rifle in a sling at his side. 

“So, if this is in fact true, then you are either from very remote places, in which case I would wonder how exactly you got so close to a major trade route, or you are something else entirely.” The woman paused for thought. “Have we tested them with iron?”

“Not yet, ma’am. Didn’t seem necessary.”

“Your judgment in this case is far superior to mine, I’m sure.” The woman gave her guard a mirthless smile. Before he could explain himself or apologize, however, she turned back to her guests. “So, if you aren’t smugglers or thieves, and you are truly lost, then what should we do with you?”

Dave shrugged. “Hell if I know. Directions home would be nice. Someone who knows what’s actually going on and where home is would be better. Maybe a plaque of some kind for dealing with all of this bullshit? Something in brass and oak. Keep it classy. Other than that I’m open to suggestions.” 

If his remarks had been intended to be flippant, nobody else present was amused. Tavros just cradled his head in his hands, exasperation forming a dull ache in his skull, while the other two leveled icy stares at him. 

The tension in the air snapped like a bowstring as another guard charged into the wagon compartment. 

“Lady Rashan! Ma’am! We’re under attack!” 

Standing up, her face set, the woman ordered the man to report. 

Gasping for breath, the man explained. “Second search group was out west of the road. Thought we’d found the hideout. It was a hunting party of Dune People.”

“In broad daylight?” Rashan’s gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated this apparently unusual information. 

The man nodded. “Cloaked and… digging, somehow. They-” He choked. “They got Skylark. On him before we could blink. We had… had to run away while they tore him apart.” His voice started to shake, and he began to crumple. “He was screaming, begging for help, but we-” 

Rashan put her hand on his shoulder. “There will be time for guilt and mourning later. The others who are still alive need you now.”

“Y-yes. You’re right.” The man appeared to get a grip on himself. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“No need. Where are they coming from?”

“West-southwest. They’ve been kicking up sand from underground, somehow, and I think they’ve got something to blow it ahead of them.”

“Moving underground?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Damas!”

“Ma’am!” 

“Get the guards to form up. Fortify in the wagons. Weigh them down so the Dunefolk can’t tip them.”

“Aye, ma’am. The talismans?”

“Only if necessary.” 

“Understood. You two!” he barked at Dave and Tavros. “Any good in a fight?”

Wordlessly, they both brandished their weapons. 

“Good. With Dunefolk, you either fight or you get to rest in their bellies.” As he led them out of the wagon, Dave muttered something about seasonings.

The camp was already a flurry of activity. Orders were being shouted and items packed into various parts of the caravan. Swirling dust had already clouded the sun, casting a dull shade over the chaos. Tavros was glad that who- or whatever had decided that he got to keep his mechanical legs had also blessed him with actual pants to cover them with and keep sand out of the joints. 

Without knowing exactly why, the troll glanced up at the sun again. Though it was partly obscured by the sand in the air, the light and warmth it gave off did not seem at all diminished. 

Tavros checked his lance. The white-on-ebony pattern glinted dully in the muted sun. He hadn’t had much cause to actually use it before, especially once in the game - his communion abilities had meant that his fighting skills, such as they were, had not been needed as much. Solemnly, he hefted it. It felt… right, still. Good. He couldn’t afford to have gotten rusty. 

His bloodpusher beat like a drum in his chest, and he swallowed. The nerves were starting to work their way from his core out into his limbs. It was a familiar sensation. Yes, he’d fought things in FLARP before, even killed, but when faced with something new and deadly, the terrible heavy chill of his own nervousness would creep into his arms and legs, numbing his claws and weighing him down. It had always made things hard. He tightened his grip on the lance. They hadn’t won before, and he wouldn’t let them win now. Dave seemed just as relaxed as he always did, with a posture eerily reminiscent of some form of watching bird, and Tavros wondered how he stayed so calm. 

He was directed to a position at the edge of the camp, with the wagons more than ten feet behind him. “Front lines, see? That way you’re the first in danger, and not my blades,” Damas had explained with a humorless chuckle. “And thanks to you being here, we can post an early warning system. Try not to die, in case they have reinforcements behind.” 

Out here, the din of the camp was not as overwhelming. The sun, cruising overhead, illuminated the rich, golden-brown sands. Tavros crouched down, contemplatively setting his palm on the ground. The warmth felt… good. Calming.

Wait. 

Tavros focused his hearing, concentrating outward, away from the camp. Had that been…?

Something in the air had shifted. Dave, intangibly, seemed to have picked up on it. Where he had been passive - observant, calculating, like a perched magpie - now he gave a feeling of vigilance, of stilled movement, like a hunting bird waiting for prey. 

There was the faintest crunch of shifting sand. In any other circumstance, it would ha-

The sand exploded at Tavros’ feet, as something below tried to get ahold of his legs and drag him down. Fear and surprise catapulted the troll backwards, and he felt, rather than heard, the sharp _crack_ of his metal foot colliding with something bony and solid. 

Six more blasts of sand obscured him from view as he shouted, his voice strangled by nerves. He had to hope it would be warning enough, as he felt something sharp cut through the hem of his jacket. It tore past his torso and skidded off the hip joint of his prosthetics, shearing off part of the leg of his pants. Dave was nowhere to be seen.

A weight hit the troll square in his back, driving him forward but not off-balance. He planted his feet, whipping the lance-tip across the ground, cutting across one or two bits of something that felt solid. The tip flickered red for a moment before a figure, obscured by both flying sand and a flapping, leathery cloak that looked distinctly like tanned human flesh, leapt into Tavros’ vision, brandishing a jagged bone spear. 

With the speed brought on by fearing for his life, Tavros jerked his weapon up, trying to brace it for impact. He was just in time - the sharp point pierced the leaping figure as the troll began to topple backwards, dragged by the scrabbling thing that had pounced on him and grabbed his horns. 

He hit the sand harder than he thought his attacker had intended, driving the breath out of it and slackening its grip. Tavros twisted and elbowed his way off the stunned lump, narrowly avoiding a thrust from another spear, wielded by yet another new figure. 

Servos whirring and bloodpusher pounding, Tavros scrambled to his feet. He shifted his weight, nearly pitching backwards again as the spear flickered towards him once more. He returned the thrust with one of his own, but the reward - such as it was - of hitting home under the disturbingly stretched cloak was cut short. Pain wrenched through his side and began to spread up through his torso as his bronze blood spilled onto the sand. 

Despite the pain, Tavros began to feel a sudden… clarity. His life was in danger. He was bleeding. Yes, there was pain and far, but there was also… thrill.

This… this was _battle_. 

Adrenaline surged through him, banishing the cold swamps of his nerves and bringing his limbs back to fiery life. He spun, swinging his lance like a club and cracking the attacker across what was probably its face. Still turning, he ducked under a third spear and lunged, lance-tip first, ramming into a figure. Under the din of swirling sand, hissed threats, and the faraway clash of weapons, Tavros heard a small cough as he felt the lance pass through cloak and flesh, skewer an organ, chip into bone, and pass through flesh and cloak once more. Crimson blood spattered the dusty ground. He barely felt the impact of his metal feet slamming down on the figure that had fallen off his back, which let out a sharp crunching noise as he continued his rush. 

Another spear thrust cut into his jacket and left a shallow cut in his side, just before a fifth bone-carved blade whistled out of the whirling cloud of sand. Tavros hauled the newly-heavy lance up in an inexpert parry. A wet thud signalled his success, and the troll jerked the lance backwards, dislodging the body that had been serving it as a macabre decoration. On instinct, he dropped low, and spear-blades slashed the air where his neck had been. 

It was strange, Tavros thought in the back of his mind. He knew he should have been breathing hard. He should have been panicking. But no, he would not die here. He had come too far - through a difficult life on a planet that wanted to kill him; through a vicious, bitter person who tried to break him; through a deadly game that, metaphorically, nearly brought him to his knees; through an afterlife that would have been erased, taking him with it. He refused to give up now. 

Overhead, the sun began to break through the clouds of sand. 

==> Eridan: Tell the humans what’s what

Eridan looked over Bua-Shing. He was not impressed with the Chieftain. 

First of all, he was hardly dressed for the part of “ruler.” The only jewelry he had was, to be blunt, a sparkly necklace, and even that was made out of blue lobster claws - hardly notable or regal. Other than that, the only thing separating him from his sparingly-clad subjects was the shell-lined cloak he wore. Sure, he was bronzed like the proverbial human god, and had hair that was a bizarre grey-green, but these were not unusual features among the people of this island. 

Second of all, he was treating this… “envoy,” as he called himself, like he was higher than the chieftain was. A ruler showing such deference to a mere diplomat? Unconscionable. 

Mentally, he checked himself. Someone had mentioned something about an empire, hadn’t they? In that case, it was a bit more understandable - everyone knew empires were dangerous to begin with, and it was a terrible idea to have one as an enemy - but it was still no excuse. If this man had acted this way to an Alternian diplomat, he’d have been dead not long after greetings were exchanged. 

Just like the other guests, Eridan had been seated in the audience chamber of what Tariq had called the Coral Palace. They had been led through streets between reconstructed ancient buildings and roofed with a marvelous translucent coral that he’d never seen before. Maybe these people were on to something here. However, he had to wonder if the shadowed corner they were sitting in had been provided for them intentionally, and what that intention might be. Whatever the reason, it seemed to suit their purposes just fine, judging by the way Kanaya’s matesprit was acting. She was watching everyone else in the room like a patient predator, noting every detail and every reaction. 

The seadweller was glad that he was not among the observed. Rose’s piercing gaze was unnerving, and her eyes almost seemed like they were glowing from the corner. 

Tariq, who had sat himself next to them, was translating the events transpiring. He had told them that the envoy never deigned to speak anything but the native tongues of the Scarlet Empire, neither of which were well-spoken here. He would also suffer no translators, insisting that the chieftain would have to speak for himself. That way there could be no… misunderstandings. 

“Arrogant bastard,” he had muttered. “He knows the Chieftain only speaks enough High Realm to be polite. That way he can claim the Chieftain must have misunderstood ‘plain speech’ and worm his way into whatever good graces he needs. And of course he won’t bother to learn our own language.” 

“Ah. Plausible deniability.” Rose had nodded in understanding. “And Riverspeak?”

“Oh, he speaks it. Insists he doesn’t.”

“Ah. _That_ kind of person.”

The envoy himself was a balding, oily man who smiled like he had just gotten away with stealing someone’s lunch, then eaten it in front of them. He was flanked by four burly, hardened sailors, each bearing a hefty cutlass at their hip and a broad-bladed pike slung across their back. They looked and acted like guards, which is to say that they looked and acted like they were looking for an excuse to hurt people. 

The past ten minutes, according to Tariq, had been small talk and pleasantries. Well, for a certain meaning of “pleasant” - Eridan didn’t even need to speak the language to understand the thinly-veiled contempt that the envoy held for his surroundings. Now, the unpleasant man bowed low (but not too low, of course) and introduced himself as “the honored Nellens Hebito, satrap of the Realm, servant of the Scarlet Empire.”

[Now,] said Hebito, as translated by Tariq, [we come to the matter of your monthly tribute to the Imperial Crown, which, we do not wish to be rude in persisting in reminding you, is late by numerous months.]

Bua-Shing replied with a cold smile. [We have paid as we have for years. If something befell the ship before it reached your port, then that is not our problem. It left the Western Seas unharmed.]

Hebito scoffed, only barely hiding it. [Cowrie shells are no currency recognized by the Realm,] he said. [We only accept payment in jade or appropriate scrip, as you well know.]

[And yet,] Bua-Shing countered, [we are unable to make our own scrip, due to your laws, and have no jade of our own to mine.]

[That is your problem.] Even across the language barrier, the sheer bluntness of the statement was evident. 

[So our debtors would rather see us suffer than accept their due payment?] The Chieftain’s face was stern, but his voice betrayed the months of cold anger he was holding back. 

[Not at all,] said Hebito, his shit-eating grin expanding and curling at the corners like greasy smoke. [We would be happy to arrange for… other forms of payment, if your neighbors are, as they seem to be, unable or… unwilling to trade with you and provide some form of payment. After all, even you have certain... products of value to us.]

Eridan had lied, cheated, stolen, and even murdered, but now he could feel a snarl of pure, caustic contempt for this man beginning to form deep in his gut. The way he had referred to “products” with a leer at the women seated near Bua-Shing made the seadweller want to spit in the man’s face. His fists began to clench, and he could hear the cracking of Tariq grinding his teeth next to him. 

Continuing heedless of the burning-coal stare leveled at him by most of the room, Hebito stated that [you have two months to pay the full debt. Else you should put your wives and daughters under guard.]

There was a sudden shift in the room. All five of the guests had stood up, as had half of the island-dwellers. The Chieftain himself had remained seated, but the five women seated next to him had each risen like pillars of icy fury. Eridan could _feel_ Feferi’s anger rolling off of her, despite the distance between them, boiling like an undersea volcano. 

[If that is all you have to say,] Bua-Shing stated, remaining deceptively calm, [then this meeting is over. Leave.]

Hebito turned on his heel and spat on the floor, muttering something darkly. 

Tariq’s knuckles whitened in response. “That… he… I…” he spluttered, rendered inarticulate by his indignation. 

Jake glared, hands lowering themselves slowly to the holsters at his hips. “What did he say?”

“I… I refuse to translate that… that _filth_ he spoke about the Chieftain’s wives!”

Hebito had motioned to his guards and moved as though to leave, but Feferi, striding through the crowded hut like a topfin cutting through the waves, blocked the exit. 

“How dare you,” she spat, leaving no doubt that it was an accusation rather than a question. The envoy regarded her as he would a small child playing in the doorway of his office. “I know you can understand me! How. Dare. You.” Her fists balled tighter as he made some airy comment. 

Eridan braced himself. For all her affectations of just being another troll, Feferi was still of royal blood. When she wanted to be, she could channel regal indignation so well that the unprepared would immediately drop to their knees, begging for mercy or bowing so low their horns scraped the dirt. Feferi drew herself up, her presence expanding past her narrow frame and billowing out like a sail, and she shouted a command to be spoken to properly. 

Hebito stood, stunned, for a moment, before very deliberately reaching out and slapping her with the back of his hand. 

For everyone else in the room, time seemed to slow to a chilly crawl. For Eridan, however, everything became a blur of burning fury. Whatever his mistakes in the past, he refused now to abandon the ideals that he had taken up in an attempt to redeem himself in Feferi’s eyes. And now those ideals formed a tide of words, crashing through his mind.

How _dare_ he touch her! 

How _dare_ he be so disrespectful! 

_How dare he strike Feferi!_

The litany of outrage was broken by a terrible sound: the grinding snap of cracking cervical vertebrae. 

Being a seadweller, Eridan was very, very strong. He had to be, to move in Alternia’s oceans. His muscles were powerful, despite his scrawny build, second only to those of Equius and then Feferi herself. So when his own natural strength was augmented by a surge of berserk fury, he was capable of things that would shame any human fighter. 

For example, punching a man hard enough to snap his neck. 

He watched Nellens Hebito with a sense of cold satisfaction as the man tried to say something, his eyes wide with shock and gazing at very nearly the opposite wall he had been looking at a moment ago, before collapsing to the floor in slow motion. A trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. 

Time resumed its normal pace as the entire room stared. The sailors’ jaws hung slack in disbelief as their eyes flicked from the still-shaking Eridan to the now-cooling corpse. 

One’s brain processed the events more quickly than the others, and it reminded him of what he was supposed to do in this eventuality. Ideally, he was supposed to have done it before this eventuality, but better late than never, right? And, to his credit, he drew his cutlass very quickly. 

He screamed in agony, drowning out the thunderous ring of a gunshot as he learned that Jake had been even faster on the draw. 

Smoke still rising from the barrel of his right-hand pistol, Jake gestured towards the door with his left. “You blokes had better get out,” he said grimly. “I don’t want to have to waste ammo on you.” 

A moment or two of silence passed, before Kanaya, who had gently taken the still-shocked Feferi aside, very quietly and very politely asked Eridan to step aside. 

The seadweller screwed his eyes shut and forced his fists to unclench. Breathing deeply in an effort to control the boiling crimson tides of fury heaving in his chest, he obliged. Now was not the time to be an avenging destroyer. 

The guards departed, using the curious gait you get when there are people who wish to leave a room immediately, but still have to project a certain air that says they are doing so only because they think they should and not because someone is pointing a weapon at them. 

The room, which had begun buzzing with excitement the moment the sailors were out of sight, fell silent as the chieftain slowly stood. With great dignity, he walked forward to where the group of trolls and humans stood, unsure of what was about to happen. This close, it was plain to see that he was older than most others they’d seen so far, though it was impossible to tell how much older. His gray-green hair shared its hues with many of his citizens, and his face could just as easily have been weathered by wind and waves as time. 

“The first thing I must say,” he said with an accent that swished and slapped like waves on the shore, “is that it is about time someone hit that louse.” Everyone present began to breathe easy once more. He continued, his expression grave. “However, my gratitude must be tempered. With the Empire’s envoy dead, they will come swiftly, seeking retribution.”

Four sets of eyes - two troll, two human - looked over at Eridan. He tensed, bracing himself for a downpour of angry words, narrowing his eyes in a glare that dared people to speak to him, oh yes, just try it and see what happens….

No one said anything. The awkwardness of the silence filled up like a balloon and rolled over onto the fuming seadweller. 

“Well, look,” he finally spat, “it was completely pathetic the way he was walkin’ all over all of you.” He kept going, rambling (without a hint of irony), “Some dressed-up asshole waltzes in here, acts like he’s your goddamn king, and you just sit there and take it? It’s fuckin’ unconscionable is what it is! And then he has the nerve to hit an em- mmph mmbl mrph muh mrbl….” 

The defensive tirade continued behind Feferi’s hand as she took over for her outspoken fellow troll. “What he means to say is that we couldn’t sit by and let such a… a….” 

“Slimy git?” suggested Jake, holstering his pistols.

“Pompous, overdressed toad?” suggested Kanaya. 

“Ridiculous bully?” suggested Rose.

“Duffbgh?” suggested Eridan, still muffled. 

“Yes, all of those, thank you,” said Feferi. “We couldn’t let him threaten you. Despite the fact that _some_ of us took it a little too far.” 

The whine that issued forth from Eridan sounded something like a kicked puppy, if the puppy had been forced to wear a medical cone and had fallen forward. 

“Naturally,” continued the troll heiress, who never forgot her sense of diplomacy, “we can’t just leave it here, either.” 

“Whh chn’t?” asked Eridan. 

“Since we’re the reason for this impending trouble,” Feferi reasoned, “we should be the ones to help you resolve it.” 

Eridan rolled his eyes. This was going to be a huge pain in the ass, and he knew it. Shit always went wrong when he was involved. _Which is why nobody wants anything to do with you,_ said the nasty little voice in the back of his mind. It liked to chime in at moments like these, and it never had anything pleasant to say. 

“If you are offering help, then we gladly accept it,” said the Chieftain. “Your sense of responsibility does you credit, young God-Blood.” 

Feferi merely smiled in response, not wishing to possibly spoil any of the leader’s good will with truth. 

“We shall need time to discuss a plan. I hope that is acceptable.”

“Take all the time you need, Chieftain,” said Kanaya, swooping in to take over conversational duties as Feferi led Eridan away. “We’ll wait outside.”

Feferi gave Eridan a look. He wasn’t sure what the look said. It could have been “you are in big trouble now, bubblebutt.” It could also have been “that was very noble of you to stand up on my behalf but we are going to have a _talk_ now.” Or it could have been “that was incredibly stupid, you are a complete idiot and I want nothing to do with you anymore.” 

He really hoped it wasn’t that last one.

==> Elegant Harbinger: Fulfill your duty

There were times when a Sidereal Exalt was glad to not know the exact moment of their death. This was not one of them. 

Despite holding out hope that this would not be her appointed hour, Ragara Tanera knew, deep in her heart, that her time had come. 

She had hoped to be able to bid a full farewell to her young brother, even though he wouldn’t remember her. Still. He would be safe. She had seen to that long ago. 

Grimly, she drew her bow and nocked an arrow. The terrible creatures she had been observing over the past few hours, horrible apparitions of glowing plasm and rent souls, had suddenly turned on her and surrounded her. She realized now that she had not been the tracker, but the prey. Too late for hindsight, especially now. 

Two of the spirits fell to the salt-tipped arrows she had prepared. A smart agent never went into the Underworld without the proper equipment, after all -the deathly shadow of Creation would drain away your Essence before you knew it, leaving you with only your wits and what you carried with you. Before she drew another breath of the tainted, stagnant air, a third shot from her bow cut through the hand of another ghost. 

Moving with the grace befitting an agent of Heaven, Tanera swayed to the side, almost lazily. Nearly a dozen arrows pierced the space where her head had been. In return, she cut down two more of the ghosts. 

A sudden shot from behind made itself known by the thudding weight hitting her back. Faster than any mortal could react, Tanera clicked her tongue and burned precious Essence. Suddenly, the arrow was not striking her, but the ghost who had fired it. The cry of pain was grim reward enough for the already flagging Sidereal, who knew she could ill afford another such mistake. 

Ducking under another barrage of fire, she pulled a simple strip of paper from her sleeve. Reciting a simple mantra, Tanera filled it with her Essence and it floated into the air, burning a brilliant pink against the surrounding gray. It sat above her bow, swaying and dipping to match its position. 

With a final prayer to the Maiden of Endings, that her own end would not be one in vain, Tanera put all her strength into a barrage of arrows, directed at the strongest point in the ring of grinning spectres that surrounded her. Mid-flight, the arrows flickered and became massive boulders, their fates unwound and re-spun by her magic. The boulders crashed through the ghosts, crushing them and leaving an opening.

Perhaps there was still a chance. 

Tanera hurled her exhausted, Essence-starved body towards the gap. Just a little further, she thought, just a few yards, she could make it-

The pounding of her heart stopped. 

As her suddenly disobedient body tumbled into the dust, she could hear the crunch of heavy metal boots and the whimper of tormented spirits trapped in soulsteel. A cold hand picked her up, effortlessly, like a child picking up a rag doll. 

Her vision was fading, but not quickly. No, that would have been merciful. Instead, she watched from within her body as her face was brought to bear with a mask so hideous and terrifying her heart would have skipped a beat had it not already stopped. 

The Mask of Winters held the dying Sidereal far off the ground, dispassionately watching her life ebb away. His funeral robes, covering the platemail he garbed himself in, fluttered despite the dead air around them. 

“Did you think I would not learn of your activities, Star-gazer?” he asked, his voice heavy and distorted, as though it were coming from a tomb deep underground. “Did you expect to walk through my city unwatched? You Viziers were ever the fools, thinking you could rely upon the stars to guide you.”

The massive, mailed fist shifted its grip, and Tanera’s body hung limp, suspended by the neck. “Go ahead,” continued the Mask of Winters. “Try to breathe. Struggle to cling to life. Pray to whichever Maiden you serve to end your suffering. It matters not, in the end. Your soul will, I think, become something I shall gift to one of my Deathknights. Perhaps Typhon will appreciate having a bauble with your tormented spirit in it, after you deceived him so.”

The Mask of Winters held her there, dangling, for a moment longer. Then, growing bored with her apparent acceptance of her fate, he squeezed. 

Tanera’s neck snapped like a twig. 

The Deathlord turned away as he dropped her like discarded trash. The hungry ghosts descended, hungering for her still-warm flesh. 

Just as her violet eyes glassed over, Tanera began to see-

-her brother, little Mikun, now so much older and stronger, shaking hands with a smiling noble-

-a laughing figure, shadowed in darkness, two long tendrils behind it as it held up a gnarled orb-

-a girl, thin but strong, dressed in strange clothes and with gray skin, looking up in wonder at the stars-

-the vision ended, and Tanera gave one last prayer of thanks to Saturn as her soul departed for Lethe. 

==> Maiden of Endings: Is it over?

For Saturn, the Maiden of Endings, it was always over. 

That did not, however, mean that there would be no new beginning. 

Saturn did not smile, for she never smiled, but she turned to her new work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ==> author: attempt rare and dangerous neck snap x2 combo  
> It is a success!  
> also ew
> 
> And so we are introduced to yet another weirdass Exalt courtesy of my good friend Tluthal. Karkat's doomed. He just doesn't know it yet. He's in for a wild ride when those five days are up, let me tell you. 
> 
> Dave continues to be aggravating and probably not very funny, at least to people in-universe. Tavros, meanwhile, is in for a lovely surprise. Your guess whether I'm being sarcastic or not. I mean, somebody's going to be surprised, and it's probably going to be pleasant for at least one person involved. On the other hand I was really trying hard in this segment to show that Creation's sun, while still a burning ball of fire and potentially searing light, is much easier for the trolls to handle than Alternia's. 
> 
> tl;dr on what I wanted to get across with Eridan's segment is that he feels like shit about what happened, spent a long time being dead and hating it, and trying to be a better person because of it. Unfortunately this little thing known as "anxiety and depression" get in the way. I found a really compelling argument for him suffering from these things and thought it made a lot of sense, so I slipped that in. If you're having trouble decoding his muffled-speak, he calls Hebito a douchebag and asks Feferi why "we can't" just leave. 
> 
> Man, that Nellens Hebito guy. What a slimeball. 
> 
> Also holy shit the Mask of Winters is terrifying. But oh so fun to write. Everyone loves a good villain, and the Deathlords, for the most part, deliver. 
> 
> Have fun decoding that vision at the end!
> 
> Meanwhile, the eyes of Heaven are upon the players....


	5. Orchestration of Mirrored Fates

Once, there was a maiden who saw injustice everywhere.  
She grinned and grinned  
And her grins hid plans.  
She plotted to end the fear that had been set before her.  
As she sunk into dark, deep places   
Filled with terror that she merely smiled at  
Her plans grew ever closer to fruition.  
Then she died, and fear died with her.  
“All things must end,” she said. 

==> Fallen Noblewoman: Set sail 

“Milady.” The courtier who had been charged with organizing the Imperial Senator’s voyage bowed. “The sailors have finished their preparations. Your junk is ready for you whenever you wish to depart.” 

Dressed in fine blue silks, the woman turned to her aide. Graciously, she smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be there shortly.”

As the aide left, the woman detachedly examined her pitch-black nails. He really was a useful pawn. She hoped she wouldn’t eventually have to kill him. He was loyal and competent, which was more than she could have said for the last one. It was a pity she couldn’t use her own servants of choice, but the Dynasts considered it impolite to have visible demons in the Senate House. Or anywhere outside the home, really. Such hypocrisy, she reflected: they would decry the practice of summoning and binding demons publicly, then those who could afford it would pick and choose their servants from Hell behind closed doors. Ah well. If it proved necessary, and his loyalty or competence failed, she could always give him to Alveua. The Keeper hadn’t had any “deliveries” from her since… well, since her last retainer had decided he valued his loyalty to the Dragons more than his loyalty to her. She still had the fine black iron chain somewhere….

No matter. She abandoned her mental segue and re-focused on the matter at hand. Ostensibly, this little trip out to the Neck was to check on her second-cousin-once-removed-or-something-by-marriage, Hebito. His attempts at getting the natives to pay their debt had not been met with success so far, and she was supposed to find out what was going on. Personally, she cared little for the worm, and she would describe the islands as “quaint” if she were feeling uncharacteristically charitable that day, but she had other concerns. However much she might delight in having the man’s head put on a pike for his failures, she had received a message and it had been quite clear: there was someone she was meant to retrieve for her masters. These - her true masters, no matter what the politicos of the Realm might wish to believe - had ordered her to find this person of interest and bring them back by means of the verdigrised key now in her pocket. 

Whoever this was, they were clearly quite important to merit an express trip to meet with her masters. All she had been told was to bring them, and nothing else. Not a word of description, only that she would know them when she saw them. 

There was a lazy stirring in the back of her mind, and an impression of glistening black needles. A wordless message floated up into her consciousness; a… reassurance? No, a confirmation. Ah. So that was how she would know. 

Once again she looked at her nails. A terrible smile began to creep across her face. She indulged herself with a chuckle like the darkest and most bitter chocolate, before turning to leave. Her ship was waiting. 

==> Vriska: Take a risk 

“Well, at least now we know what he meant by ‘a few days out of date.’”

Vriska gnawed at her bottom lip thoughtfully. No wonder the man had been so hesitant. The “booklet” on Nexus’ laws was a mess of loose pages, stuck-in notes, random annotations in the margins, and crumpled napkins with indecipherable scribblings crammed into a binding that would barely have held cardboard together. The laws themselves were scarcely in a better state, with many having been crossed out or edited by an inexperienced hand. The only page that was mostly untouched - indeed, it was pristine by comparison - was one of the first pages. At the top of the page, in actually elaborate script, was a phrase: “The Dogma.” 

No taxes shall be raised, save by the council.  
None shall obstruct trade.  
None shall bring an army into Nexus.  
No-one shall commit wanton violence.  
None may falsely claim the council’s name or sanction.  
None shall harbour a fugitive from the council’s wrath.

They’d each read it repeatedly , and Terezi had muttered the phrases to herself until she’d memorized them. From what they could tell, these six sentences formed the totality of the immutable laws of Nexus. Everything else - anything that was not Dogma - was a “Civility” that could be changed at any time by this “council.” Common sense dictated that the Civilities wouldn’t just be changed willy-nilly, but some of them could easily trip someone up, and not just by leaving the book out. 

The only porter who had agreed to take them (and hadn’t visibly blanched when seeing Vriska or Terezi) was an exceptionally tall and broad-shouldered man. The rickshaw he hauled behind him was a large, rickety thing, much larger than any of the others on the street, and he was capable of carrying on an easy conversation while dodging between carts and blocks of pedestrians. 

“New t’ Nexus, are ye?” he had asked as he breezed past a fruit stall.

“How did you know?” Jane replied between a bounce and a rattle. 

“Well, ye an’ yer friends clearly ain’t plain street folk, so ye’d be from Firewander or outside the city, t’ my thinkin’. An’ I ain’t seen owt like ye ladies, beggin’ yer pardon o’ course, so I guessed from there.” 

“You know,” said Terezi, “that’s not the first time someone mentioned Firewander to us. What even is it?”

“A, bad place, it is. Oldest part o’ the city, an’ blasted t’ Hell an’ back by the Fair Folk ages ago. ‘Tis covered by a Wyld storm what keeps most inside folk in an’ most outside folk out.” The porter’s feet nimbly danced around a stray dog. “Lots o’ folk what can’t even pay to eat hide out there. Tend t’ come out lookin’ a bit different.”

Now curious, Jane asked, “So then where are you from?”

“Grew up ‘round the edge o’ Firewander. Happens t’ be why I’m bigger’n most, at least t’ my thinkin’. Little bit o’ strangeness bleedin’ over from the worse parts. I didn’t mean t’ be the biggest or the strongest out here on the street. Don’t even exercise! Aside from rickshawin’ folk like yerselves about, that is.” 

At a particularly noisome and crowded intersection, the porter was more than happy to confirm their guesses regarding the Civilities and what the council, more properly called the Council of Entities, did. The Dogma, he said, had been what founded the city. 

“The Emissary made them the stuff what never changes. The Council makes the rules, but they can’t change the Dogma. As for the Emissary, well, you ladies just keep yourselves well clear o’ any troublemakers what break it. Nobody knows how, but the Emissary always knows. Story goes that ‘e can make ye choke on yer own blood without touchin’ ye. Never tries t’ make the rules for ‘imself though. Just serves the Council.”

Jane did some mental math. The city was far too large and populous to be very young. “Just how old is this Emissary person?” she asked. 

“No one knows,” said the porter simply. “Most say ‘e was here for the buildin’ o’ the city, an’ the rest say ‘e’s older’n that, even.” 

“And when was the city built?”

“Ye’d have t’ ask a historian for a real exact answer, but I think ‘tis over 700 years ago.”

Jane choked on her surprise. “Sev-? Wh-... I… how?”

Terezi hummed thoughtfully. Perhaps there were trolls in this city? Before she could voice her curiosity, however, something cut across her senses. 

A series of carts, three in total, pulled by sturdy oxen, trundled down the rough-hewn streets, emerging from a brumous thoroughfare. The drivers and their passengers smelled of spices and silk and silver. In the back of the carts, however, Terezi could pick out sweat, tears, unwashed bodies, rotting hay, and the dull, dark tang of well-used iron. 

Traffic in the street had stopped to let the train through, and the cargo it carried was plain to see. Most of the people in the carts were clearly human, though malnourished. Others were no less malnourished, but had clearly inhuman features, such as fur, or a tail, or large spots on their skin. Each one, regardless of usual or unusual features, carried the same downcast look and wore an iron collar. 

Terezi’s lips pursed into a thin line, and her grip on her cane tightened. A city ruled by trade. Of course it would trade in lives, as well. 

Vriska remained impassive, at least outwardly. Slaves had been another reality on Alternia, especially the high seas. Now, however, it all seemed… distasteful. At least she’d given her captive enemies the dignity of death. Eventually. She hadn’t had much of a choice, honestly, but…. 

Jane, however, was _fuming_. She gripped the edges of the seat hard enough to make the wood creak, and hot tears welled in her eyes as her blood boiled. She wanted to scream, but her throat had closed up. Shaking, she instead settled for raising her hood. Behind the soft cloth, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to block out the images of the gaunt faces passing by. 

Terezi laid a hand on Jane’s shoulder. It helped, but only a little. 

As the rickshaw began moving forward again, Terezi made an educated guess. “The Guild?”

“Aye,” said the porter. “Not a very nice way t’ first meet them, I’m sure, but… well, I know a merchant or two with them. Most just want to keep enough coin in their pockets for the next meal an’ a little extra besides for tomorrow. Then you get folk like the ones what own those carts.”

“Anything for a profit,” muttered Terezi. 

“Aye.” 

Jane made rest of the journey in silence as Terezi busied herself studying the case file they’d been given, with help from Vriska reading the actual writing. Eventually, the rickshaw pulled up outside of an expensive-looking townhouse, situated on a hill that rose above the crowded, smog-choked streets. The pointed iron bars of the gates formed an imposing contrast to the warmly-colored bricks of the house itself. Many of the windows had thick curtains obscuring the interior, and those that did not showed only unlit candlesticks or darkness. 

“Well, here ye are, ladies. Would I be right in thinkin’ that ye’ll be back out soon?”

“Yes. It… should only be about an hour,” said Terezi. 

“Well then, I’ll be here in an hour! Beggin’ yer pardon, but this is thirsty work.” Jane wordlessly paid the man, then turned to her erstwhile companions. 

Vriska folded her arms across her chest. “Let me do the talking,” she demanded. 

Terezi looked nonplussed, while Jane didn’t react at all. 

“Look,” continued Vriska, “our guy back at the prison or whatever called this guy a rich bastard, right? And he’s got this big, fancy-looking house, looking out over everyone else. I bet he counts his money every night before bed, and I bet even more that he’s involved with the Guild.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My _point_ , piranha-grin, is that _you_ think like a lawyer. You also can’t hold a poker face for shit. Crocker here, I have no idea, but I reeeeeeeeally doubt she has the mindset we want. _Me_ , on the other hand… I can think like a bastard. And when you deal with a bastard, you want another bastard on your side.”

Terezi sighed. Damn it, she had a point. And, despite everything, there was a… _something_ telling her to trust Vriska. Some half-memory, floating at the edge of her consciousness like a picture just underwater….

“Fine.” It wasn’t as though Vriska could just sell them out here. She wasn’t likely to get any offer or proposal like that, not with the two of them also in the room, and not if how they’d been treated in the street had been any indication of how they were viewed by the general public. 

“Okay,” said Vriska. “Just follow my lead and stay quiet.” She proceeded to straighten her shirt, roll her neck, and brush her wild hair aside in her trademark flip. She set her shoulders back, adopted a confident smile, and strode to the door. Rather than use the fanciful knocker, she rapped sharply on the hard, darkly-stained wood. 

The servant that opened the door greeted the group with a stony, haughty glare. Vriska’s smile grew by a few pointy teeth as she, very politely, explained that they were there to see Mr. Latian and implied that it would be in their mutual best interests to allow them in. 

The servant’s expression changed only minutely - his eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch to indicate his scathing skepticism. 

“Of course,” said Vriska, “if you’d like your boss to not have this nasty murder business resolved….” 

The door shut. 

Vriska held up a hand, forestalling Terezi’s imminent comment. He’d be back. Give it… two minutes for him to reach the office, three - no, one, he was succinct - to explain, two to come back….

Just ahead of her expectations, the door opened again. This time, the servant stood aside and gestured for them to come through. The trio was led to a set of rich mahogany doors, set with gold leaf, and the servant left. Vriska tossed her hair and knocked. 

The voice that beckoned them inside was like oiled silk - smooth, practiced, and dripping with the kind of charisma that cologne-makers wanted to bottle and sell. In many ways, this would also describe the man the voice belonged to, as well as the office he sat in. Both the man and the office were hung with rich silks in vibrantly-dyed colors, and gold inlaid with small, subtle jewels accented the melange of opulence. The chair that housed the man was, much like his desk, darkly-colored and imposingly large. Currently, the man himself was leaning over the desk, steepling his be-ringed fingers and watching the trio with eyes that glinted from behind wiry spectacles. A neat, close-trimmed beard decorated his face, much like the luxuriant rug that decorated the floor of the office. 

“Well, well, ladies, come in. My doorman tells me you have a proposal for me regarding the job that the Council’s toy soldiers rejected.”

“You could say that,” said Vriska, already practically oozing with equal charisma. “You could also say we have a nose for finding… connections.” Terezi had to suppress a snort. “Lucky thing we heard about your job offer, too. We’re new in town. Who knows? Maybe our luck will work for you, too.” 

The man chuckled. “New to Nexus and already making solid sales pitches. You do seem to learn commendably quickly.”

“From someone with your reputation, that’s quite the compliment.”

“Hah! And what reputation might I have among three young ladies so new to my city?”

Giving her best charming smile, Vriska replied, “Mainly that you’re filthy rich.”

There was a moment where the rich bastard sized up the spidery rogue. Her smile twinkled like a gilded bear trap, and her gaze didn’t falter for a second. As he watched her, she watched back. The opening moves had been made - now was the time for the real game to begin. 

Jhaq Latian burst out laughing. “I think I like you, young lady.” An honest statement, even if the reasons for it were cryptic. “Your companions seem less… animated, but I’m sure they have value of their own.” Backhanded and barely a compliment in the first place. “However, I wouldn’t be where I am without being able to secure guarantees. A faulty product is worthless.” Foreboding. “I need some assurance that I’ll be getting my money’s worth. Guild standard, you see.” 

Terezi _felt_ Jane begin to tense up. She caught the back of the beige robes, subtly, before the human wearing them could do anything foolish. The troll shook her head slowly, knowing that Jane would be giving her a glare. 

Vriska’s mind raced. How could she provide a guarantee? They had nothing for collateral and no résumé, or at least not one that could be read. No references, no money, no resources, nothing but the clothes on their backs and their skills…

… and their luck.

Opportunity’s light twinkled as Vriska’s smile became predatory. It was all a game, right? Built on chance and figuring out what others wanted, what they knew, what they were willing to do or pay….

“In that case,” she said, tossing her hair, “how about a wager?”

“You have my attention.”

“Got a couple of spare cups?”

The man gestured graciously at the crystal decanter on the sideboard, with matching glasses. 

“Oh no, those won’t do.” Her smile inched wider. “Something more… solid. Less transparent.”

Latian’s smile grew to match her own. “Why, would this happen to be a proposal to play a game?” Twinkle, twinkle. 

Vriska drew out a satchel, one made of azure silk. She had played this game many times in her career as Marquise Spinneret Mindfang. Deadly gambles had won her valuable prizes aboard ship and against enemy captains foolish enough to bet their luck and skill against hers, trying to out-roll and out-bluff her. The dice inside clacked as she set it down, showing an impressive flash of color against the dark wood of the desk. “I think you’ll find the rules familiar.” 

“A single roll, my dice against yours.”

“Best dice winning.”

“Of course. The stakes naturally being your... employment?”

“What else is there to wager?”

“Then it is agreed.” The man’s smile indicated that he could think of other things for them than employment, should he win. “On my honor as a Guild factor.” He withdrew a satchel of his own from one of the drawers and laid it upon the desk. In the absence of cups, empty coin boxes were proffered and taken. Both parties opened the boxes and poured their dice out into the boxes, not even looking at each other’s hands as they never once broke eye contact. On some unspoken signal, they picked up the boxes, rattled them and their contents about, and tipped them upside-down, open lid first, onto the desk. 

There was a muted clatter as the dice fell into place. 

Both players tilted their boxes ever so slightly - just enough to see what they had rolled. 

Vriska bowed graciously. “The first call is yours.”

“Very well. A simple pair.” 

“Ah, interesting. I happen to have three of a kind.”

“Hmm. I say four of a kind for myself.”

Vriska nodded. “Five.”

Jhaq Latian’s eyes narrowed. “And I as well.” 

Vriska’s smile would have put Terezi to shame, if she could have seen it. “Eight,” she said. 

The factor’s own smile vanished. “Eight? _Eight_? Have you perhaps forgotten how to play this game?”

“Not at all.” 

“Then you have ruined yourself with an impossible bluff.”

“If it is so impossible, then we should reveal our dice.”

“Very well.” He lifted his box straight up, showing five perfect cubes, each one showing six pips on its top face. 

There was a terrible, dreadful silence as Vriska did the same. Eight prisms with eight sides, each showing eight pips - a perfect roll of the Flourite Octet. 

The silence stretched out like a yawning abyss as her opponent looked at the desk. Each roll had been made perfectly by the rules of the game - all dice from hands to box to desk, without being touched even slightly after rolling. She knew that he could not fault her on that. But she had known the rules - even on Alternia, it was a game of five dice against five. Now was the make-or-break moment, where her daring could very well damn them….

Jhaq Latian burst out laughing.

“It would seem that I lose,” he said. “The best dice have indeed won. Well played.”

“I hope that this illustrates what I’m capable of.”

“Oh, quite well. Something I’ve learned in my own experiences as a merchant and dealer of many things: if you don’t like the rules of the game, change them.” 

“Changing the game is… something of a specialty.” 

“Both bold and practiced, I see. I am a man of my word. What do you know of this… case?”

“Yushuto Mita, here from the city-state of Lookshy to see her betrothed.” Terezi’s voice cut clearly through the office as she recited the information from memory. “Strangled with rose branches and hung by those same branches from the city walls. Teru Alkami, independent mercenary captain. Wall collapse, crushing him below. Black Ox, blacksmith. Found in his shop with a blackened stump instead of a head and suspicious ash inside his recently-lit forge. Sergeant Arin, enforcer for the Iron Brotherhood. Impaled with his own spear and pinned to a wall. No witnesses, no connections except for each body and crime scene being covered in bloody handprints. Each victim was missing a personal item as well, probably taken as a trophy.” Terezi’s teeth flashed in the sunlight streaming through the window. “Have I missed anything?”

Seemingly taken aback, the Guildsman raised an eyebrow. “No… no, I think you’ve covered the basic facts quite well. How…?”

“We have our sources,” said Vriska. 

“And a smart investigator never reveals them unless necessary,” said Terezi. 

“Well, I seem to have underestimated you. Needless to say as it is, you’re hired. I’ll pay fifty silver dinars now, plus twenty-five a day starting tomorrow, with reports on your progress every five days. Six hundred dinars on the arrest or death of the culprit.” 

“Sixty today,” demanded Vriska. “You can’t expect us to start a dangerous investigation without adequate accommodations, can you?”

“Fifty-five and no higher, with the rest as previously stated.”

“Done.” 

“Excellent.” The troll and the human shook hands, both with not-entirely-honest smiles on their faces. “I’ll have my barrister write an official contract. Standard agreements and caveats, of course. One can’t be too careful. I’ll send it along to wherever you end up staying.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll have to get started with the contract. You ladies should get going. There’s been a civility decreed that citizens aren’t to travel between districts at night, and the streets can be… dangerous, besides.” He turned to look out the window. 

“Just one question, Mr. Latian,” said Terezi. “You’re very invested in this. Why would that be?”

“Because,” said the man, not turning, “I believe that there is a single killer responsible, and I want them found. There is a certain… stake I have in this. And besides,” he finished, looking over his shoulder, “it’s bad for business.” 

Terezi merely nodded and turned to go, keeping a hand on Jane’s sleeve. 

As the three filtered out, returning to whatever street they’d come from, Jhaq Latian pulled out the simple ornament he wore on a chain under his coat. It was such a simple object, not much more than a little metal trinket, but it held far more importance than the casual observer would have thought possible. 

The Guild factor put it away, and chuckled to himself. He had a barrister to call upon, and a letter to write.

==> Ancestral Undertaker: Pay your respects

This sort of job did not usually fall to Zhouhan Xen, but then, this was an unusual circumstance. 

The Deadspeakers were the least well-known and least populous of the Observances practiced by the Funereal Order of Righteous Morticians and Embalmers, but often the most necessary. Zhouhan Xen had been a part of this Observance, though there would be times when aid was required from the Funerists or the Mortwrights. Upon the passing of the noted Funerist, Zhouhan Xen, the Deadspeaker asked to be the one to prepare the funeral for an honored grandfather. Though unusual, the request was granted. In time, this would lead to polite requests from the Funerists, as the Deadspeaker’s knowledge of how to speak with ghosts and settle disputes between the living and dead were often needed to properly prepare the last rites. To have a funeral of any kind that was conducted improperly was unthinkable, in the City of Tombs. 

It had been that night, two years ago now, that the person who would become Zhouhan Xen was working late - far too late, until the person themselves became late. Exhaustion had finally overtaken the tired body, and just as the heart was finishing its final beat, a spark of darkness had entered the room. 

On the border of life and death, the Deadspeaker had cast all traces of who they had been into the void, and took the name and office of the grandfather they had buried, becoming Zhouhan Xen, Funerist of Midnight. 

Silver bracers - the badge of the Morticians’ Order - were the only flash of color in Xen’s clothing. Xen’s body was covered from head to toe in a dark gray robe, as tradition in the order dictated. Many wore heavy shawls over the robe to combat the pervasive chill in Sijan’s air, though Xen was no longer bothered by such things. Instead, Xen wore a mask under the hood, a thing of pure matte black to give them the appearance of an empty hood. It was fitting for one who had given up the past, and looked only to the dead. Gloves of thin black fabric covered skillful hands, which moved with the grace and precision of a master surgeon.

This job was unusual, even for those Xen was called to do. Technically, the citizen of Sijan was no longer part of either Observance they had worked for, but the Order recognized the need for one who could so easily cross the bridge the gap between Creation and the Underworld. Therefore, Xen had been given a special position, one somewhere between that of a Funerist and a Deadspeaker, or perhaps just a blend of both. It was in this capacity that they had been given this request. 

The calligraphy of the poem was perfect, made by the practiced hand of a well-trained Mortician. A simple thing, to be sure, but nothing was to be spared in giving the dead their proper respect. Xen set the brush aside and breathed on the scroll, and the chill of it set the ink well enough that it could be picked up. 

Having been kneeling in concentration for the past twenty minutes, Xen straightened up, taking the scroll from its place before the grave. In soft, reverent tones, the Mortician recited the poem, head bowed, never needing to check the words. 

“In life, you suffered  
In death, you guide your children  
You still bring them strength

Walk forward this night  
Knowing that forevermore  
They shall honor you”

The shade of an armored man, face scarred with one too many battles, smiled sadly, and turned to go. The Underworld called. His children and their children after would be safe now. The Mortician had made sure of that. 

Solemnly, Xen set the poem down once more, anchoring it to the foot of the grave with four small, elaborately-carved pebbles. Here it would stay, until one of the Funerists could come and etch it into the rock. Poetry came easily to Xen, but stonecarving was another matter. The duty done, Xen returned to their office. 

In the office, waiting on the desk, was a letter bearing the seal of Thorns, and that infuriating fool Typhon. 

The diplomat from Thorns had been sending letters with transparent overtures and thinly-veiled attempts at coercion for some time now. Xen believed the man to be nothing less than a scoundrel, a creature of false words and the smile of a black widow. When he was not cajoling for the Mortician to practice in Thorns, where the talents of one of the Order would apparently be well rewarded, he would allude to dire consequences and prophecize doom for Xen’s loved ones. The fool had not yet realized that Xen was wholly dedicated to the craft of speaking to and for the dead, although that was likely because the Mortician never sent any form of reply back. Still, the missives held vital, small clues as to the state of the fallen city, and there were those in Sijan that held well-founded concerns for what might come out of it next. After the monstrous figure known as the Mask of Winters had conquered the once-proud Thorns, standing astride an undead behemoth, there were few who would argue that what had become a fairly docile city of the dead was not a grave potential threat. All assertions from Typhon, the city’s speaking face, aside. 

Impassively, Xen scanned the note with dull, bored eyes. Typhon’s writing lacked much in subtlety or conversational grace. Still, it was at least somewhat entertaining, if only from the standpoint of mentally making fun of the diplomat as the letter was read. This particular letter carried nothing but hollow flattery and saccharine overtures of friendship. Offhandedly, Xen wondered if Typhon had at any point been forced to stop writing, else he would actually vomit. 

Xen stopped as something caught their eye. Well. This was interesting. Typhon claimed to have been in contact with a rather… intriguing figure. One who roamed the Underworld, dressed ridiculously even for a clown, muttering about saviors and laughter. The sharp strokes of the pen, having bitten deeply into the paper, indicated how strongly Typhon felt about this particular character, and he went so far as to call them “an utter fool, parading about in some mummer’s mockery of the _true_ guardians of the dead, which we both assuredly count ourselves among.” 

Xen put the letter down, looking back into the dusty archives of memory. Something had stirred there. A vague recollection of a ghost, one who had mentioned something about a clown of some kind. The story the ghost had told, however, likened the clown to a demon, possibly even one of the fabled Anathema. The clown had ranted and raved, proclaiming the ultimate truth of some twisted religion worshipping bizarrely-named beings who preached the joy of violence and the enlightenment found in death - particularly by causing it. The ghost had fled the scene, and said that those who denied the fanatic later vanished without a trace. 

Black-gloved fingers steepled themselves in front of the mask. This would need consideration. With luck, this was merely a story, and did not mean any kind of threat to Sijan or the righteous dead. Luck, however, was not something that Zhouhan Xen had ever trusted. 

==> Feferi: Herald an Ending

It could have gone worse. That was important to remember. Of course, in politics, there was always a way for something to go worse. And this _was_ politics, make no mistake about that. With an Empire involved, it couldn’t _not_ be. 

That was the first order of business: find out more about this Scarlet Empire. Feferi really hoped that Hebito had not been representative of the Empire as a whole. 

Since there was nowhere close to sit, Feferi leaned against a nearby house. With her anger gone, and the heat of the tropical day bearing down on her, the troll heiress felt totally drained. She hadn’t felt quite like this since… since… 

… since she had broken things off with Eridan. 

Fuck. Those were some memories she didn’t particularly want to revisit at the moment. 

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? She could, very justifiably, blame Eridan for their situation. He was, after all, the one who lost control and actually killed a diplomat. If this Scarlet Empire was anything like the Alternian one, there would be retribution. But, on the other hand, it was hardly his fault that they’d been dumped somewhere totally foreign and thrust into a tense political situation. She had her guesses as to why he’d reacted so violently, as well. The situation was not beyond repair. It would just take time. 

Time. That was the other grim, toothy sea-beast bearing down on them like they were bleeding in the water. They had no sopor slime. She wondered how long it would be before the nightmares and lack of sleep would start to affect them. How long had it taken on the meteor? She and Eridan had been dead, so she had no idea how that would apply. Kanaya hadn’t been, but she’d been fine; she’d had her matesprit, and that was on top of being a rainbow drinker. And if it came to the worst, she was the one who had the best chance of… dealing with Eridan. If it came to the worst. 

Speak of the devil. Eridan trudged out of the meeting hall and slumped against the wall. Now that he wasn’t incandescent with indignation, he seemed broken-down and miserable. Entirely understandable, given the circumstances. 

Several moments of awkward silence descended, circling like vultures. Each one eventually perched on the nearby roofs, hanging overhead. 

It was Eridan who broke the silence. “Fef, I… I’m really sorry,” he said, not daring to look at her. “I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I just want to… to do better. You know? Fix all my fuckups.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Guess I fucked that up too. Don’t know why I thought I wouldn’t.” 

“Eridan, that’s…” She set her jaw. This had been a common thread back during their moirallegiance. It wouldn’t be now, though. “Okay, yeah, punching that guy wasn’t the best idea, but I can see why you did it. At least I think I can.” 

“I lost it. I couldn’t handle him hitting you.”

Feferi nodded. “That’s what I thought. And it was kind of… well, I appreciate that it was for me. But we can’t do that again.”

“I know.” Eridan’s gaze was locked firmly on his knees. 

“And this is our responsibility to deal with with.” 

“I know.” His gaze sank lower. 

“Things… well, they don’t look great.”

“I know.” Now he’d hidden his face completely.

“But,” said Feferi, her voice picking up, “I’m pretty sure we can fix this. Kanaya’s working on it right now.”

“Okay, great, but do you even want me to help? I’ll probably just--” 

“Eridan. Stop.” Her hand on his shoulder almost made him flinch. “I… you remember why things between us didn’t work out? This was part of it. A big part. And the worst thing is that I had no idea what to do when you got like this. So… you want to get better, right? You don’t want to keep feeling like this? So all I need you to do is _talk_ to us - _all_ of us - and tell us what’s going on. Tell us what you need. What you’re trying to do. And, well, I don’t know for sure, but I think you might want to talk to Rose especially. I feel like she can help.” 

Unable to muster the strength to speak, Eridan just nodded. She had cut straight through him. He couldn’t talk about _anything_ , and that was the problem… right? But how could he open up without becoming some whiny, pathetic burden? 

Maybe she was right. Maybe Rose would know. 

Someone cleared their throat. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” said Kanaya, “but the Chieftain wants to speak with Feferi.” 

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course.” Feferi hauled herself away, but not before giving Eridan one last reassuring pat on the arm. 

“What does Chief Bua-Shing want?” she asked her friend on the way back to the meeting chamber. 

“It likely has something to do with how I told him you were… important. Effectively, our leader.”

“And you told him this because…?”

“Well, it wasn’t a lie, exactly. Oh, turn here.” Kanaya gestured down a hall to their left. “There’s a private meeting room. But as I was saying, neither Rose nor myself feel comfortable taking on such a role, and I didn’t think Jake was particularly qualified. No offense to him.” 

“Oh. Well, yes, I think you made the right call, there. At least for now.” 

“For now?” Rose was rubbing off on her matesprit; the eyebrow Kanaya raised would have impressed the true masters.

“Well, you know I didn’t want to take the throne.”

“Ah, yes. Your plan to reform the Empire. I always thought that alone qualified you to be a good leader.” 

“Oh? Thanks, I guess.” Feferi rubbed the back of her neck. “But I really didn’t want to be a leader. It means doing things that shouldn’t have to be done and having to sacrifice people for other people.”

“Knowing things like that is also why I thought you would be a good leader.”

“I don’t know. I never wanted to have to be at the helm of some huge empire or something. It’s a lot of pressure. All I wanted was to help people. But… if it’s necessary, I’ll step up. This is really serious. I don’t think we have time to take anything lightly.” 

“Would that have anything to do with the disappearance of your trademark fish puns?”

Feferi merely nodded. They were approaching the meeting room. 

The Chieftain was not alone. His wives were also present, metaphorical (and in one case, literal) sleeves rolled up and deep in discussion. One of them, a younger woman with deep blue hair, looked up and waved them over to sit at the grand table. 

As the two trolls obliged, the woman introduced herself. “I’m Latrea,” she said, reaching out to touch each of them in turn on the shoulder. “Bua-Shing’s fifth wife. Thank you both, for what you’re doing.”

“It’s no trouble.” Feferi smiled, consciously keeping it from stretching too wide. Humans seemed to find her full grin mildly unsettling. “This is our responsibility.” 

“Still, you’re taking on an awful lot.” The blue-haired woman smiled reassuringly. “Go ahead and introduce yourselves, and we’ll bring you up to speed. I’ll translate for you; I’ve always had the best Riverspeak.” 

The trolls shared a brief glance as the rest of the table looked up at them expectantly. Kanaya’s asked, _how much do you think we should tell them?_ Feferi hesitated, then nodded. _Go for it,_ the nod said. _I’ll trust your judgment._

Kanaya stood and cleared her throat, somewhat nervously. “Yes. Well. My name is Kanaya Maryam, and this is Feferi Peixes. Our human companions are Jake English and Rose Lalonde. I believe you are… well acquainted with our final companion, Eridan Ampora. As you can plainly tell, none of us are from this area. We are, in fact, quite lost. On top of that, our friends and allies have been separated from us. All we want to do is find our friends and our way home, and yet we have been involved in something we perhaps should not be. There are many who would not blame us for merely moving on and leaving you to deal with this problem on your own, but not one of our group can, in good conscience, let you suffer for something that we are responsible for.” 

She paused to let Latrea finish translating her speech. When that was done, she looked up at the six unfamiliar faces. “I believe that this will work to our mutual advantage. If we help you resolve this crisis, you will be free to, at the very least, tell us what direction we should travel. Many say that virtue is its own reward, but it does seem to come with some practical benefits as well.” Kanaya finished with a wry smile. 

Bua-Shing smiled. “Well spoken, Kanaya Maryam. I think we have an agreement, then. We will help you find your home if you will help us keep ours.” He turned to Feferi. “I have been told much about you already, but I think that none of it spoke so plainly as your earlier actions. Given that your companions so readily spring to your defense, as well, I believe you are a leader I can respect.”

“I hope so, sir.” She shifted uneasily. “There are only a few of us, and I’m not sure what we can offer you, but our hands are yours.”

The Chieftain nodded. “Then I shall explain our situation….”

The explanation took nearly an hour. The Scarlet Empire, though physically distant from these islands, was powerful enough to stretch its influence even beyond where they currently stood. Okeanos, being a collection of small, independent tribes that kept to themselves, did not merit much attention from the Empire. They had their own struggles with internal politics, hence why the Chieftain had five wives - one from each tribe, to keep the peace. After claiming the territory, the Empress had left them very much alone, accepting regular tributes in the form of coral and the cowrie shells which made up the currency of most of the West. And that had been that; aside from the occasional resupply stop, which tended to go amiably enough, the Neck (as the Empire had dubbed the area) was untouched by Imperial interest. 

But that had been five years ago. Then, the Empress had disappeared. 

Both trolls were mystified as to how this seemed to matter much more than the simple phrase had made it seem. It clicked into place as the Chieftain and his wives continued to explain. The Scarlet Empress had ruled for over seven hundred years - something which was impossible by normal human standards, they knew, but apparently this was exceptional even by the standards of the “Dragon-Blooded” that made up a large portion of the Empire’s subjects. Nearly a millennium ago, she had restored order to the world by destroying the armies of invading monsters from beyond the edges of Creation, and by ending a plague so terrible that it defied all treatment and claimed nearly every life it touched. Since then, she had taken over nearly everything she could extend her considerable reach to, and while she may have had a grip of iron, it fell fairly. People were made to kneel before the legions of the Empire, but they were also kept safe by those legions, and had food and shelter. It was claimed that she was blessed by all five of the great Elemental Dragons, and she drove away the Anathema - demons who would offer promises of power to mortals, then drive them to madness and destruction.

Clearly, the Empress had been very important. 

But then, five years ago, she had totally vanished, without a trace. Now a useless regent sat on the Scarlet Throne, and each day, it was said, the Empire drew closer to collapse and civil war. All of this would have been fine with the peoples of Okeanos, who had been kept far from trouble by their satrap’s own apathy. He had been a drunken lout, not even concerned with collecting the tribute each year. Then, not six months ago, the satrap had died (reportedly of over-drinking), and a new satrap had taken over. 

“Hebito,” Kanaya reasoned. 

The Chieftain confirmed her guess. Hebito came from a family that had little in the way of good reputation, even within the Empire. House Nellens, it was said, was full of thieves and liars, people who would rather like to have the rest of the Empire in their pockets, lining them with coin. Naturally, he had done nothing to disprove this. He had immediately demanded that Okeanos pay its debt in full, and in jade. 

“I am told that Tariq translated what was said in the throne room,” said Bua-Shing. At their nod, he continued. “Then you know why we cannot pay this. So we formed a plan. We made a bargain with the Skullstone Archipelago. In exchange for allowing some expeditions to trawl our waters for things of interest to them, they would provide the jade to absolve our current debt.” 

Feferi’s mind was quicker than Kanaya’s when it came to politics. “That’s quite a bargain. Either you benefit far more from it, or they do.” 

“We were not exactly in the position to question the offer.” 

The heiress let it slide. “Fair enough. I’m assuming that something has gone wrong, then.” 

“In a sense. The ship from Skullstone will not be coming, and we must retrieve the jade ourselves.” 

“Which, it would seem, is where we come in.” 

Bua-Shing nodded. “We have asked a favor of… an old friend. The ship arrives here tomorrow. We want you to go with that ship and secure our jade, and bring it back to us safely. After that, you will be free to pursue what you wish.”

Both Kanaya and Feferi knew it wouldn’t be that simple. But it was all they had, and they owed their hosts a debt. 

“Very well,” said Feferi. “We’ll do it.”

Everyone present smiled and thanked them, and some other things were said, but Feferi tuned them out. She politely excused herself, feeling even worse than before. She needed rest. It wasn’t likely to come, but she needed to at least try. 

Outside, there were short dunes overlooking the surf. The sand was soft, almost white, and the heat of the day still lingered, held fast by the tiny grains. It was perfect, or at least as perfect as one could get on a shoreline. 

Feferi sank to her knees, already feeling drowsy. She lay back, closing her eyes and laying an arm across them to block out the light. Just a quick nap, and she would be back up….

In a mere moment, the troll was asleep, exhaustion having carried her off like a leaf on a river. 

==> Equius and Dirk: Impress 

“Given the improvised materials and the exclusion of certain items at your request, this is the best I can do in this given time frame.”

Dirk was, admittedly, impressed. Even though their robotic hosts had actively denied him the use of quite a few useful-looking parts (“classified mechanisms,” they said), Equius had managed to cobble together enough of a robot that it was clear that he knew what he was doing. With a rattle and a clank, the endoskeleton lurched forward and took a few steps. 

“My apologies,” said the troll. “I didn’t have time to rig a proper power supply. This really isn’t reflective of my standard work….”

Clarion and Bulwark were speechless. Dirk, on the other hand, was intrigued. 

“Wait, how’d you handle the basic A.I.?”

“Oh. That.” Equius indicated a crude circuit board on the back of what passed for the endoskeleton’s head. “I used some basic logic circuits. Programming has, er, never been my strongest suit.”

Behind the glasses, Dirk’s eyebrows quirked. “Uh… yeah, I can kind of tell.” 

“Yes. Well. The machines I built never needed to do much, with one exception. And that exception was a rather exclusive case. Otherwise, I relied on a basic routine created by one of my… compatriots.” 

“No offense dude, but with work like this, I’d be surprised if this thing could do more than walk. _Maybe_ it could throw a punch. Maybe. If you could get it a sense of balance.”

“Er….”

“God damn, what were you even building them for?”

“... exercise.” Equius shifted uncomfortably. 

Dirk glanced at the troll’s biceps. They were certainly solid and well-used. “Huh.”

“Well, they fulfilled their purpose. I only needed to destroy them. I could rebuild them later if necessary.”

“Could’ve ‘fulfilled their purpose’ better, though. A smarter opponent lasts longer.” Dirk adjusted his glasses as he examined the circuit. “Wow. You got this wired backwards. And upside-down. I don’t even know how that _works_.”

Equius’ only response was to sweat. 

“Okay, look, give me half an hour and a soldering iron and I can have this thing dancing the Charleston. I can do even more if I can get my hands on something I can program with this.” Here, he pulled out his phone and gestured with it. 

Equius took the device and examined it. “Ah. Yes, I think that would be within the range of my capabilities.”

“I hope it looks better than _this_ did,” Dirk muttered. 

“Wonderful that you two are getting along, really,” interrupted Bulwark, “but Clarion and I have some… questions.”

“For example,” continued Clarion, “how you two scraggly teenagers have expertise that equals that of trained savants. Possibly several in one.”

Dirk’s expression shifted enough to show that he was mildly offended. “Scraggly? I’m in too good of a shape to be _scraggly_.” 

Bulwark’s stern gaze tried to penetrate the dark lenses between him and the teenager. “Answer the question, if you don’t mind. I’d rather you took this seriously, otherwise we might have to.” 

Equius cleared his throat as politely as he could. “Well, in regards to myself, it’s common for individuals of my kind to have some degree of specialized education or training. It’s a product of how we are raised.”

In turn, Dirk shrugged. “I lived in the middle of Fucking Nowhere. It was either figure out how to literally make my own friends or learn how to talk to seagulls.” He didn’t mention the auto-responder. Nobody needed to know. 

“Seagulls?” Clarion parroted the word, rolling it on her tongue as though she were trying to find out what shape it was. 

“Seagulls. Birds. You know, flap around, make noise, live by the sea? Obnoxious and greedy?” 

Silence. 

“Constantly shouting ‘mine, mine’ like five-year-olds?”

More silence. 

“... huh.” The human tilted his head slightly, as though logging this information away for further analysis. 

Clarion and Bulwark turned and began a heated discussion in low, almost inaudible tones. The construct lurched one more step, wobbled, and collapsed pathetically. Bored, Dirk began to mess around with his phone. 

Equius glanced over out of curiosity. Dirk was fiddling with the settings. The troll gave him a questioning look. 

“Trying to get a signal.”

“Ah, I see. To contact our companions?”

“Mm-hm.” 

“Any luck?”

“Sort of.”

Equius gave the human a look once more. “If you’d care to elucidate?”

“It’s… complicated.” Frowning, Dirk shook the device, then tapped the screen. 

“Explain.”

“Alright, it’s like… well, it’s not that I don’t have a signal. Polar opposite, really. It’s almost like there’s _too much_ signal, if you catch my meaning.”

“Er….” 

“Okay, look. According to this, there’s a hell of a wi-fi signal. But there’s no origin point as far as I can tell. It’s like we’re standing inside the source. For all I know the signal could be coming from the walls. Or our friends over there. 

“Can you access it?”

“That’s the other thing. I can try, and it doesn’t look like there’s any kind of encryption or security, but my phone won’t connect. It’s like it can’t process the information.”

“So either your device is wrong, or the signal is beyond its capabilities.” 

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Before they could discuss the implications of this new theory, there was a knock at the door. 

“Ah,” said Bulwark. “That’ll be Six.”

Troll and human shared a questioning look as the door was opened. 

The figure in the doorway was far more alien than anyone they’d met so far. Stick thin limbs, arranged in a spindly mandala, made them look even skinnier than Dirk, but a multitude of lenses attached to their face like some kind of mask gave them the appearance of a spiky dance club decoration. 

“Bulwark,” said the stranger. Their voice was layered, echoing with strange harmonies. “News from the Tripartite.” 

“Boys, this is _Sixfold Lenses of Clarity_. Six for short.” Bulwark gestured at the newcomer, who ignored the introduction. “So, is this news good or bad?”

Six looked nonplussed, or at least as much as it was possible with a face made mostly of lenses. “Just news.” 

Bulwark sighed. “Right. What is it?” 

“A message came from Jarish. Two of their Alchemical Exalted have volunteered to lend aid after the Cogwheel Dragon attack.”

The silver man did a double-take. “Two? And they _volunteered_? More importantly, they were _allowed_ to?”

A couple of Six’s lenses whirred and clicked. “It seems so. That is the official report, at least.” 

“I don’t trust this. This is far too soon after the fact.” 

“On the other hand,” said Clarion, “Jarish was never interested in Project Razor. And we could certainly use the help, no matter who’s coming.”

Bulwark turned back to Six expectantly. 

“Reports did not specify. However, it is expected that they will arrive in approximately one day, possibly two. It is likely that they were fairly close.” 

Another sigh. “Guess we’ll find out when they get here. Not like we can turn them away, anyway. Maker-damned politics.”

Clarion gave her leader a sidelong look. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” said Bulwark, calculating possibilities in his head. “I’m thinking, in order to protect national interests, we need to have some people assisting us.” His tone was that of someone rehearsing an official explanation. “Smart people. People who can do good mechanical work, given time and tools, and keep an eye on our incoming guests. Just in case this is a sabotage attempt. People that will look harmless enough to not be suspicious.” 

The silver man turned to Dirk and Equius. “Congratulations boys,” he said. “Welcome to Project Razor.” 

==> John and Roxy: Acclimate 

Their new job, as it turned out, was to join the Guardians. 

Rune explained on the way. There was a small squad, he said, of people in similar extraordinary circumstances to theirs. Not exactly the same, of course - they were all Whitewall citizens, born and bred, despite the weirdness in their lives - but something out of the ordinary meant that they had been set apart from the others. They could all fight, so they were skipping the usual introductory training. Today was supposed to be their first day on the official patrols. 

The training hall where they had been assigned to meet was austere and sparsely-decorated. Fur rugs kept their feet off the cold stone floors, and weapons - kept polished and sharpened - hung on the walls in easily-reached racks. Rune had left to find the others. 

While they waited, John busied himself examining some of the banners strung across the torchlit walls. The angular, runic script was totally indecipherable to him, but at least it looked nice. Large, authoritative lettering declared… something. Maybe it was the icy-tundra-world equivalent of an inspirational cat poster. 

Roxy, for her part, was giving herself a hands-on tour of the weapons. She had hoisted a spear down from its rack and was hefting it experimentally. The leaf-shaped blade glinted in the torchlight, sending tiny sparks of light through the shadows as she lifted it. The only weapon she’d ever actually _used_ before had been her laser rifle - everything else had been handled by her capable fists - so the weapon felt heavy and awkward in her unfamiliar hands. She wondered if she would be required to use it, and if that was the case, if she’d be able to use it effectively.

“Alright, that’s enough, thief.” The voice made Roxy jump, and she nearly dropped the spear. She whirled and saw a broad-shouldered young man, holding his helmet under his arm and pointing a sword at her. 

“Whoa, hey!” Roxy put the spear back. “I’m not a thief!”

The man didn’t lower the sword, but he did seem to reconsider. “Right. There’s no way a real thief would dress like something out of a Nexus street show.” 

Roxy looked down at her outfit. It wasn’t that bad, was it?

Before things could get any worse, John intervened. “Uh, hi! I’m John, this is Roxy, and we were told that we’d be joining people that I think include you. Rune said-” 

The man relaxed and sheathed his sword. “Ah, right. The new recruits. So to speak. Fair enough, then. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait until Rune gets back with the others for the introductions.” 

“Yeah, sure….” John trailed off, not sure what exactly to say in the awkward silence. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long, as Rune returned quickly with two others in tow. 

One of the strangers was slender, even rangy, but he had an odd intensity that made him seem larger. The other was solidly built, but not exactly muscular. Instead, she seemed to be less of a warrior and more of a commander, or perhaps a strategist, if not a scholar. Both of them, however, paled in comparison to the raw presence of the man who had interrupted Roxy. He radiated… something. John couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the man had an aura that made him seem immeasurably powerful. However, that power came with a subtle feeling of wrongness. It was a feeling that lurked just under the surface of his aura of strength, like a crocodile sitting in a swamp. 

“Alright, all of you,” said Rune, rubbing his hands together. “I know some of you already know each other, but let’s have everyone introduce themselves. I’d stick around, but unfortunately I have some other duties to attend to.” He nodded to the man who had shown up before the others. “You’ve got your orders for the day, so I trust you’ll be able to carry them out.” 

The man saluted. “Won’t be a problem, sir.” As Rune left, he turned to the remainder of the group. “Well then. I suppose we should get started. Name and why we’re here should be enough. Any volunteers?” 

The other man practically jumped at the chance. “I’ll do it!” He stopped, looked embarrassed, and cleared his throat. “Sorry. My name’s Tor. Rune recommended me for this unit when he found out I was a God-Blood.” 

John looked puzzled. “Wait, did I hear that right?” 

Tor smiled sheepishly. “Yes, you did. My mother is mortal, but my father, whoever he may be, is a god of some kind. Mother can’t even tell me who he really was, unfortunately. The only clues I have are this spear -” he gestured to the long, harpoon-like weapon slung across his back “- and this little trick I can do with it. No matter where I throw it, it’ll jump right back to my hand.”

Roxy felt a pang of sympathy. “The spear trick is kinda cool, but that sucks about your dad. I hope you find him soon.” 

“That’s what I’m hoping for, working with all of you. What about yourselves?”

“I’m Roxy, and this is John. We’re, uh, not from around here. We just woke up and found ourselves here.” 

“What, like you hitched a ride on a cart or something?” 

“Not… exactly. Um.” She tried to think of how to phrase it. “Kind of hard for carts to get on top of roofs.” 

The woman laughed. “So that was you on top of the bathhouse? Sweet merciful Syndics, when I heard about that, I thought I’d die laughing. Did they really have to pull you out of-” 

“I ended up on the roof and that’s all I’m saying about it,” Roxy interrupted, blushing furiously.

The woman just smirked. “Alright, if you say so. I suppose I should introduce myself, then. Velka. The only reason I’m here, really, is because I was smart enough to see through one of the Fair Folk’s little games. Someone tried to get in but I pulled the whole plan apart.” 

John considered this. “That still sounds like it’s a pretty big deal.” 

Velka shrugged. “If you say so. I’m just a researcher. Admittedly, one who can fight, but a researcher nonetheless.” 

“Well, okay. Like Roxy said, I’m John. And we’re not from around here. Um… how do I put it? We kind of… dropped in. We’re not even sure where we are, exactly. There should be a bunch more of us, people like us and some grouchy gray-skinned aliens, but we don’t know where they are either.” 

The other three looked mildly taken aback. The only one who hadn’t introduced himself shrugged. “If… if you say so. I suppose Rune thought you’d be able to organize a search or something while this job kept a roof over your heads. So that just leaves me. Call me Heimdir. According to Rune, I’m supposed to be the captain of this little unit. Reason being I’m the most experienced with the Guardians. As for why I’m here and not with the main body… well.” 

Heimdir rolled up his right sleeve, revealing rippling muscle, laced with terrifyingly dark scars. The spiderweb of marks on his forearm all radiated from a long, pointed shape, like a sharp fragment of black metal had burned itself into his skin. 

“Out on patrol a while back, some other Guardians and I found this… thing. Looked like a man trapped in a cage of wire. We tried to get him free, but it rose up and attacked us. Killed one of the others before it went for me. I thought I’d blocked the strike in time, but it got past my guard a moment too soon. Didn’t land too solid a blow on me, but a piece of it stuck in and broke off when I bashed it away with my shield. Now it’s stuck here. It can do… things. I’m not entirely sure what all it can do, but it does seem to make me a lot stronger, at least.” 

Velka shook her head, seeing the questions on John’s face. “Don’t ask. The surgeons already tried to remove it. Blunted half their instruments before they gave up. I’m looking into what that thing is, but for now, it’s there to stay.” 

Heimdir nodded his thanks in her direction. “So, with all of that out of the way, what exactly did Rune recruit you two for?”

The duo shrugged simultaneously. “Not really sure,” said Roxy. “He said something about a prophecy, took us to see the Syndics, then took us here.” 

“Prophecy? Is he still going on about that?” Heimdir’s shoulders sagged. “He’s been rambling about that vision from the Unconquered Sun for the past year, or more.”

“Unconquered Sun?” John still hadn’t gotten a clear answer as to who or what that was. 

The other Guardians looked surprised, in varying degrees. “You… really aren’t from around here, are you?” asked Tor. 

“Well, no. We just said that.” 

“The Unconquered Sun is… well, the sun.” Tor gestured at the ceiling. “Everyone in Creation’s heard of him, or that’s the way I’ve heard it. According to some of the historians, he was worshipped all over the world. At least, before the Dragon-Blooded took over and formed the Scarlet Empire.” 

Velka nodded in agreement. “The big temple in the center of the city was built to worship him. But it’s been sealed for centuries. At least until Rune became what he is now. The doors only open for him, though, and he won’t go inside. Nobody knows why. He won’t tell.” 

“Okay, now I’m confused,” John said. “What’s the deal with Rune?”

“Chosen by the Unconquered Sun, or something grandiose like that.” Heimdir looked thoughtful. “I think the term he used was ‘Exalted.’ The Syndics have him going everywhere and doing everything for them now. Like there’s something special about it.” 

Velka coughed, politely. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I think we need to be going. We don’t want to be late for first patrol.”

“Right.” The large man straightened up and put on his helmet. “Let’s get a move on. The walls might wait for us, but the Fair Folk certainly won’t.” 

On the way to the walls, the group explained what Heimdir had meant. One of their duties, as members of the Guardians, was to protect Whitewall from invasion. Usually this meant just patrolling the walls and keeping an eye out for anything suspicious-looking that got a little too close. 

“There’s this big agreement, see,” Velka explained. “A treaty. There’s several courts of the Fair Folk nearby, and even closer is a shadowland. We’d be up to our necks in fairies and ghosts on a daily basis if it weren’t for the Thousand Year Pact. They stay out of the city, the walls continue to keep out any unwanted visitors, and we send out twenty prisoners a year to keep them happy. Ten for the fairies and ten for the dead.” 

Neither John nor Roxy were too happy with this arrangement. 

“Just something we have to do.” The words were cold and grim. “It’s that or face constant threat of invasion. And we only send out the condemned. Murderers and traitors and the like. The Syndics aren’t too thrilled about it either, but it’s all we’ve got for now. And we need the city to be strong. It’s that, or get crushed under someone’s boot.” 

Tor snorted in derision. “And as if we didn’t have enough problems between the behemoths and the Realm eyeing us, there’s the Bull. Old bastard’s probably thinking about how to conquer us right now.” 

This had needed further explanation. The Bull of the North was a barbarian, a warlord of unbelievable skill and repute. He and his Icewalker tribes had begun to slowly conquer the North. The Scarlet Empire considered him a threat, and now with more reason than ever - one of the Great Houses had sent their legions against him and been crushed. Those who didn’t respect the Bull feared him, and many who did respect him feared him anyway. 

Heimdir dismissed any thought of the Bull threatening Whitewall, however. “He’s not interested in us. And even if he was, his troops couldn’t get past us. Laying siege to Whitewall would be a waste of time and effort for him.” 

The banter continued as they began their patrol of the walls. Eventually, John managed to explain the extent to which he and Roxy were lost. “We can’t even read the banners in the training hall,” he pointed out. 

“Oh, those? Motivational garbage.” Tor shook his head. “Little things like ‘hang in there’ or ‘you can do it.’ Some bureaucrat’s idea to lower the training budget.” 

The group was now patrolling over the main gates of the city. At this time of day, the road below, which nearly glinted in the sunlight, was mostly empty. It was a slow time for travel, Velka explained. Not much would be going on here, thanks to the magic laid into the road itself. 

John was about to ask what she meant by that, but Roxy interrupted him. “Hey, guys. What’s that?” 

The group scanned the horizon. 

“There, just off the road. Looks like a bunch of lights coming over the ground.” 

Roxy was right. A small, glittering mass was approaching the city, some distance from the road. From the distance, it was hard to tell what it might be. Certainly not a group of normal travelers. 

Velka’s eyes narrowed. “Captain,” she said, quietly. “I don’t like this. Could be trouble.” 

“Agreed. Signal the other patrols. No change in movements, but they should be ready, just in case. We’ll watch to see what this is.” 

Their answer came as the lights approached the city. Everyone tightened their grip on what they were holding as they saw what appeared to be huge, shaggy, ape-like beasts bearing large crystals of ice. Dark shapes sat, suspended, within the crystals. Hunched, knobbly-skinned humanoids - hobgoblins, according to Velka - bore a palanquin of gossamer silks, pine wood, and rich furs, upon which reclined a woman with impossibly graceful features and skin like newly-fallen snow. Her ears came to long, willowy points and her eyes were totally black, like coal. Icy blue patterns of frost played over her skin, which she showed much of, despite the cold. Her robes, also of silk and fur, covered just enough to border between provocative and exhibitionist. 

Everyone in the group had a good guess as to who, or at least what, she was. 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” muttered Tor, voicing the thought for everyone. 

The procession came to a halt within shouting distance of the walls. The woman waved her beasts to a halt with a scepter carved from ice and gold, which she then used to gesture at the walls. 

“My greetings to the people of Whitewall,” she said, her voice clear and cold. “Would that they were friendly tidings, but I must come to discuss business.” 

Heimdir spoke. There was no one else who could speak for the city. “And what business would that be?” 

“No nonsense, I see. Very well. I’ve come because of a little… hiccup in the arrangement, shall we say? You are, of course, aware of the terms of the Thousand Year Pact?”

“Aye, that we are,” replied Heimdir. 

“Oh good! Then there must have been some mistake,” said the woman. “For you see….” She paused dramatically, revealing a smile like frosted glass. “I have not received my tribute, as per the Pact.” 

Velka spat. “Hateful raksha hag,” she whispered. “We sent them out just like we did every year.” 

“I know that,” said Heimdir. “I damn well should; I was on patrol that night.” He shook his head. “The screaming didn’t stop until sunrise.” 

“And now this… this _Fair Folk_ ,” growled Velka, unable to think of a proper insult, “thinks she can demand more?”

“I see that there is some confusion,” said the raksha. “Perhaps this may bring you some clarity!” 

She gestured with the staff again, and the yeti-like beasts hefted their burdens high. Each of the Whitewall natives present swore under their breath as the sunlight showed each shape in the ice for what they really were - human beings, trapped. 

“I caught these interlopers in my domain, and, realizing I had been cheated, came to ensure that the agreement would be upheld.” 

Velka had taken a quick count. “That’s three patrols worth of hunters,” she said. 

Grimly, Heimdir said, “At least now we know why people have been going missing.” 

“The terms of reparation are simple,” said the raksha woman. “I demand twice the yearly tribute, in exchange for forgetting that the agreement was ever violated.” John’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wall. “If you do not comply within the next, oh, ten minutes, I will consider the lives of these interlopers forfeit and take them myself. One by one, I shall drain them of life, until you acquiesce. I imagine it might take some time just to kill only one of them. There’s no rush, of course.” 

Heimdir swore, as only a veteran guardsman could. “If we don’t comply,” he said, “she’ll be able to take that to the other Fair Folk courts as an admission of guilt.” 

“They’d buy that?” John asked.

“I don’t know for sure. They might. And if they do, we could be in for a world of trouble.” 

John looked down at the people trapped in ice. Their faces were frozen in moments of shock, fear, or horror. As if they knew what was going to happen. 

“Captain….” Tor hissed. The raksha was beginning to look impatient. 

“I know, damn it, I know!” Heimdir gnawed at a thumbnail in frustration. John saw the conflict on his face - either sacrifice the lives of people he had sworn to protect, or condemn twenty prisoners to an unknown, horrible fate and possibly doom the city either way. 

The teenager looked back down at the group gathered below. The wind began to pick up, flowing past his back and down over the wall. He had to do something. 

“Shall I take this silence as refusal of my terms?” The woman laughed, taunting them. “I must say, these people do look as if their fear is going to taste truly wonderful.” 

Tor looked frantically at Heimdir. They had to make a decision _now_. 

John set his jaw. The wind swirled around him as he drew up his hood. A voice, deep inside of him, told him that it would be okay. He could trust the wind as much as he trusted himself. 

As hood streamed out behind him, John vaulted over the edge of the alabaster walls. 

There was a brief moment where everyone present stared in pure shock at the falling figure clad in blue. Then, the winds came. 

Gusting and swirling, the wind caught John and slowed his fall, guiding him to slide gracefully down the city’s titular walls. He kicked off, making a solid three-point landing, a single hand outstretched behind him. He stood up, chest swelling with righteous fury. The sunlight glinted off of his glasses as he stared down the raksha. 

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But where I come from, we eat gods for breakfast! So now I’m going to show you how we do things downtown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a hell of a chapter. Sorry that it took so long, a lot of things got in the way. It doesn't help that this is the longest chapter yet, either. A good chunk of it was setup for the next couple chapters, which is why I of course used this particular Charm name for the chapter title. 
> 
> And of course there's nothing more setup-y in this chapter than the first section. People who are pretty familiar with Exalted might be able to recognize who that character is. Naturally, she's bad news regardless of what else is going on. 
> 
> The Nexus section of this chapter was really fun to write, especially Vriska's little gambit. I tried to think of a way for her to use her luck to the fullest extent possible, and keeping in mind her pirate theme, I found the very real game of Liar's Dice. It's fun! Google it and give it a try at your next party. Cutlasses and rum optional. 
> 
> Oh look a sneaky cameo from a certain person. Baaaaaad news there.... And there's Typhon. Fuck that guy. On another note, I really like Sijan as an element of the setting. God damn is it a cool city, and it's got so many story opportunities. 
> 
> The dialogue between Feferi and Eridan was... well, it came from a few different personal places. Yay awkward histories! I tried to get a little more into Eridan' head, but not too much since it wasn't really his section. Fef and Kanaya get to carry that one. Other than that looooooots of exposition there, blaaaaaaaah. Tried to make it clear and entertaining, especially since the Scarlet Empress is one of the most amazing characters in anything. 
> 
> More fun from the Autochthonia duo. At this point I don't even know what's going on between Dirk and Equius, just that Dirk is a snarky asshole and Equius, for all of his amazing engineering skills, probably isn't that great of a programmer. That was Sollux's job. Dirk, on the other hand, is better at that, since he literally did make his own friends. 
> 
> And last but not least, good old John and Roxy. I rather like the characters I introduced to them here. As for Rune and his agenda, well... no, I won't say anything. That's a "wait and find out" situation. Much like the lovely little cliffhanger I've left you all on. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the eyes of Heaven are upon the players....


	6. Immanent Solar Glory

==> John: Exalt

His gaze didn’t waver, not once. Not when the raksha dropped her scepter and drew a spear made of icicles from the air, not when dozens more tundra-colored hobgoblins appeared as if from nowhere. Not when she laughed. 

“Valorous, boy, very valorous. I’ll applaud you for that.” The raksha daintily climbed down from her palanquin. “But so often is bravery naught more than foolhardiness. And now, for all your heroics, you shall merely be the first of the score I have requested.” 

“You know something?” said John. “I think you’re wrong. So wrong that you’re in for the busting of a lifetime.” He smiled a bit at his own reference. 

The woman merely shrugged and gestured to her minions. They closed in, menacing with short hacking swords and sharp fangs. 

In a blur of motion, John cracked his hammer across one’s face. It dropped, hissing between broken fangs. Before he could strike another down, applause rippled across the empty field. 

“Very good, very good!” The raksha laughed haughtily, hiding her mouth behind a bent wrist. “I thought you might be a clown of some kind from your garb, but that hammer truly is the crowning touch!” 

John looked at the Popomatic Vrillyhoo Hammer. It wasn’t _that_ silly, was it?

The raksha waved airily in his direction. “Carry on.” 

The hobgoblins charged. 

John braced himself. 

The sun glinted off of the walls. 

A dozen blades and claws hit John with the force of striking hail - and stopped. 

All the world stilled in the moment, and a bountiful light washed over John. From the light stepped a vision. 

He was tall, broad, powerful. Four muscular arms opened in a wide, embracing stance, each one bearing a different item - a horn, a crown of laurels, a shield, and a spear, each one glittering like solid sunlight. His features were the Greek ideal of “heroic” and his face, though difficult to see for all the radiant glow, was marked with a kind, warm smile. With a voice like the gentle embrace of a hot summer noon, he spoke. 

“John, long have I watched you. Through the Game, guided by only your heart and the words of those close to you, never did you falter. Your strength served as a beacon to your friends, and now, tested as you have never been before, that beacon burns only brighter. Unwavering commitment to those you consider close, and unhesitating action to protect the innocent - you have, once again, proven yourself worthy of my gaze… worthy of my divine fire.

“I am the Unconquered Sun, and I am very, very proud of you.” 

There was… a _rush._

John suddenly felt like he was breathing liquid sunlight. Power, strength, flowed through him, over him, around him, settling on his skin like a coat of armor. And the voice continued, burning and shaping the power.

“Though you may know nothing of this world you now find yourself in, know that you are not lost. My light, my gift to you, will guide you. Though you may struggle against the forces that oppose you, know that you cannot fail. I give you the righteous strength you will need. Though there are countless souls that cry out in peril, know that you shall inspire them, lighting candles in the darkness.” 

The words resonated deep into his bones, into his very core, into the depths of his soul. 

“Creation is beset on all sides by those who would devour it. Creatures of darkness seek to conquer the defenseless. Unjust tyrants hold the world in thrall. There are many who believe hope to be lost… but you, my Resplendent Sun… you can prove them wrong. All you must do is _be_ , as your heart - that which has been and forever shall be your compass - directs. _Be_ as you are, and your righteousness shall never falter.” 

John felt the fire in his core that had been slowly building begin to truly ignite, like he had a fuse that had been lit. 

“I have faith in you, my Chosen.” The giant took up John’s hand in two of his own, eclipsing it completely. The other two rested gently on his shoulders as the Unconquered Sun knelt down to address the boy, face-to-face. “I have always been proud of you. This is your inheritance. Be not afraid, and I will always be with you.” 

The Sun stood up, almost regretfully. “I have done all I can for you now. The only thing I have left for you is this: Whitewall needs you. Ondar Shambal will need you more. But soon, the greatest needs will bring you southward. There, my Chosen, you shall find your friends again.” 

As the light from the kingly giant began to fade, and the vision began to dissipate, the world around John began to move once more. 

John exploded. 

Sunlight - rippling, burnished gold, inexorable - blazed forth from the young man’s body. The hobgoblins scattered under the raw force of the brilliance, and a perfect golden disk formed on John’s brow. 

Enveloped in a radiant halo of gold, with tendrils of pure white whipping past him like winds, John looked at the raksha, now alone amidst her fleeing minions. She grinned still, but now it was a simple baring of teeth, the fear evident behind her mask-like expression. With sheer blind bravado, she brandished the icicle spear and charged, aiming directly for his heart. He didn’t move. 

The spear shattered against his chest. 

The raksha noblewoman stumbled and fell to the ground, visibly shaking. John looked down at her and said, very simply, “I think you should leave, don’t you?”

“Yes!” she shrieked, trying to force her limbs to carry her backwards. “Yes! I’ll leave!” 

“And I don’t think you need that tribute.” 

“Yes! Yes of course! Silly me, paid in full!” 

“You should probably not come back.” 

“Absolutely! Won’t come near here ever again!” 

John knelt down, bearing uncharacteristic seriousness. “Promise me.” 

“I swear, lord! I swear by the Cup and the Ring and the Staff and the Sword! Whitewall shall ne’er have me near it so long as I live!” 

“Good.” John stood up, slung his hammer over his shoulder, and turned back to the city gates. 

It was ten minutes before the raksha could bring herself to move again. When she did, she scrambled upright and fled, the last remnants of her dignity fluttering away behind her.

Meanwhile, on the wall, every jaw present had dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaven's gaze has fallen with favor upon the Players.


	7. Sharing the Gifts of Luna

==> Jade and Nepeta: Exalt 

Both Jade and Nepeta had frozen - the human in wonder and confusion and the troll seemingly caught between fight and flight. Luna, still bearing the face of the Horned Watcher, grinned. The grin smouldered, such that anyone looking directly at it would have felt their knees go weak. 

Luna turned to Nepeta and approached her. “My dear, dear girl,” she said. "You’ve been through quite a lot. I mean, understatement of the century, but you get my meaning. And now you’re stuck in the middle of who-knows-where. Hint: it’s me that knows where. I also know how far you’d go to see your moirail again. On top of many others. And the raw fury you’ve got buried, deep down. Oh the _fury_! I haven’t seen rage like yours since that charming young man from the South.” She paused. “I wonder how he’s doing. I ought to go check. But that’s for another time.” 

Luna, towering over the troll, reached out and fondly caressed her cheek. Nepeta sank to her knees as Luna continued. “You have so far to go, dear, but oh, how I know you have the strength to do it. Your loyalty alone is enough to carry you to the ends of Creation and back, but you’ve got so much else as well.”

Luna knelt down. She drew Nepeta close, speaking in the low tones of a mother bear comforting her cubs. “You don’t fear death when your loved ones are on the line. You keep them as safe as you can, by might or by matchmaking. You know the ways of the wilds, the places you call home. And that, my dear, my darling, makes you worthy of being my Chosen.”

Nepeta, trusting this mysterious shape-changer against her better judgment, closed her eyes. Luna, smiling gently, laid a passionate, intimate kiss upon her forehead. Soft silver light began to fill the clearing as she stood and turned to Jade, her features shifting and falling away, leaving the shape of an elderly woman in a traveler’s robes, with long silver hair framing a dark face behind a black veil.

Jade felt her rifle vanish as Luna approached her. Some part of her brain told her that she should be afraid, that Luna was dangerous beyond measure. But for all that feeling there was also a sense of promise - a sense that the danger was something she was about to inherit. 

“The guise you see before you is known as the Walker at the Crossroads, my dear. Some people believe that in this shape, I am a portent of terrible things, or of bargains to be made. But my children know better - here, I am the wisest of the wise, knowing terrible things that can be and will be. You are familiar with this, I feel.” Luna took Jade’s hand. “The future was never a mystery to you, was it? Secrets of the universe’s inner workings laid themselves bare to you like the drawings of a child. And for all of that, you feared not. Your gifts were used to ensure the safety of your friends. Even if it would cost you your own life.” 

Luna knelt down, leading Jade to her knees. “Your friends could not ask for a better warden. One who can see the shape of the things that hide betwixt seen and unseen. One who is not afraid to know the unknowable.” A wizened hand brushed Jade’s hair back from her forehead, and the girl felt the strangest sense of calm wash over her. “Do not fear, my child. My gifts will unlock the power you have always held, deep within you. Brilliance and savagery. Kinship and fury. Wisdom and primal instinct. You have always been ready for this, and I have seen you prove, again and again, that you are worthy, my dear, my darling, of being my Chosen.” 

Jade felt the unearthly woman lay a kiss upon her forehead, and in that moment, everything changed. Luna, smiling as ever, vanished as the world turned to a panorama etched in silver light. Jade stood up as she felt more than saw Nepeta do the same. The troll hunched over, curling in upon herself. Before she could wonder why, Jade felt a roiling fire begin in her chest, and she too curled up as it pulled at her soul. 

The fire spread. Everything in the world seemed sharper, cleaner, more brilliant. With every heartbeat, something, deep inside, seemed to yearn to escape her body and manifest. It was a tidal wave of feeling, a sensation of fangs and scales and fur and claws. Every instinct Jade had felt since ascending to God Tier, absorbing the power of her First Guardian friend, multiplied a thousandfold, then vanished as the sensation collapsed in on her. 

Argent light had flooded the clearing, and it resolved around the two into intricate patterns, like ancient art, depicting a huge feline towering over one and a great hound over the other. Jade realized that she and Nepeta were both laughing. It spilled out in waves, as easy as breathing, because now everything felt so _effortless_. Oh yes. Now she felt like she could climb a mountain, then devour it for dinner afterwards. She felt like she could seduce a thousand people and not be spent. She felt like she could hunt primordial beasts, the likes of which had not been seen by humankind for millennia, and bring them down with ease. 

The two looked at each other, feeling nothing but the sheer animal exhilaration of being alive as the light began to fade, taking the images with it. Jade could see a complete disk of purest silver upon her companion’s brow, while Nepeta saw an empty ring. 

As the last of the light faded, the two both fell back to their knees. New sensations prickled on their skin. Jade felt… _incredible_. 

There was a polite cough from the edge of the clearing. A man stood there, dark of skin but fair of hair, and wearing simple clothing woven from durable silk. The colors and patterns shifted as he moved. He waved at the two, giving them a reassuring smile. 

“I see you two are getting acquainted with your newfound power,” he said. “I remember when I felt that. Hold on to the feeling. There’s nothing else like it.” He bowed. “Call me Burning Sky, or Sky if you want to keep it short. I’m pleased to meet you both, not least because it is my solemn duty, as given to me by our beloved goddess, to initiate you two into the Silver Pact.” 

He straightened up, ocean-blue eyes glinting, as he told them, with the utmost sincerity, “Welcome to the family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaven's gaze has fallen with favor upon the players.


	8. Invincible Fury of the Dawn

==> Tavros: Exalt 

Dave wanted to help the troll. He really did. He was, however, stuck with problems of his own. 

Dead cloak-covered bodies lay strewn around him. He was fast, too fast on the whole for their spears, and Bro had made sure he could fight blind. Unfortunately, the creepy assholes he was fighting recognized what kind of a danger he posed, and had accordingly changed tactics. Now, they danced just out of his reach, using their spears to harass him and wear him down. His face hadn’t moved, but he was already bleeding from minor cuts and flesh wounds. 

Three spears stabbed, and three spearheads dropped to the sand. Dave twisted his blade and cut across a hidden throat before taking a swing at the next figure that had gotten too close. 

The blade hit armor and snapped, which would have sent him off-balance if he hadn’t been ready for it. Instead, he feigned being thrown off. Sensing weakness, the figures closed in, and the scrawny teen thrust forward. 

Re-forming the blade was as natural as breathing, and now one of his attackers fell to the sand wondering how a broken sword had stopped being broken for just long enough to run him through. 

Before another could fall for the trap, all of the shuffling, hissing, and stabbing stopped. A chorus of terrified shrieks rose up from where Tavros had been surrounded, and - 

\- wait, what the hell was that light?

Tavros had _never_ felt like this. It was like when his confidence had grown, but… but _more_ somehow. Confidence had made him feel _complete_. This… this made him feel _huge_ and _great_ and like his very soul was on fire. It was a wellspring of awe in his chest and a brilliant light in his eyes. It was like he’d taken a drink of bottled heroism. It was like flying, but with everything he had, not just his body. 

Whirling his lance with newfound ease as Dune People scattered, the troll struck a pose without quite knowing why. A voice boomed, echoing in his mind and deep in his heart. 

“Tavros Nitram. Before you arrived in this world, you were afraid, alone. Damaged by one you once called friend. Never knowing your true strength, or how vast your legacy could grow to be. But through the Games, I saw you for the person you could become. I saw your potential. And here and now, you have shown me once again the fires of courage that burn within you. 

“I am the Unconquered Sun, and I deem you worthy.

“Rise, my Chosen. Burn with the glory of the Dawn. Soar, young one. Show them what it means to be an Ascending Sun.” 

Tavros _grinned_. Golden flames, tinged with red and rich bronze, blazed into life, stemming from his back and resolving into wide, spanning wings. A ring of gold, with eight lines radiating outward, burned like a beacon on his brow. The flames burned along his horns, creating a fiery halo that made him appear like a bull-headed angel of war. His lance, too, lit up like a firebrand. 

The tip of the lance whirled in a perfect arc, drawing a burning circle as Tavros spun it into position. An expression that could only be described as cocky lit up his features as he shouted at the fleeing Dune People. “Come on!” he roared, voice clear and high with the might of the sun. “Give me a challenge!” 

Dave’s glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. The occupants of the merchant camp watched as well. Tavros slammed his lance, point-first, into the ground, striking a defiant pose, arms folded across his chest. The flames faded, but the sun mark on his forehead still burned. As the troll turned to his travel companion, still smiling with the thrill of victory, Dave could only utter three words. 

“Holy _shit_ , dude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your surprise, Calicojane. I think you'll find this satisfactory~


	9. Creation-Preserving Will

==> Feferi: Exalt 

Feferi dreamed. 

In that dream, there was a soundless song. 

O young maiden from long afar  
Carry with you your sorrows  
Leave behind the bonds of the past  
Take only what you have learned  
No longer do you gaze upon all  
With white-mirror eyes  
But still all things must end

Overhead, an infinite sky housed countless stars, twinkling in the darkness, connected by innumerable threads that formed a beauteous, ever-shifting web. The song came from the stars, a celestial lullaby in eerie, restful silence. All around her, the sea, still as starlight, reflected the sky above. 

Feferi floated there in the sea, watching the stars, totally at peace. 

Five constellations began to glow with a faint violet light, the lines between them lighting up like they’d been drawn with a pen and neon ink. Around these simple lines, full pictures began to draw themselves. Five images glittered in the sky, forming a ring around her, and each one spoke its name to her: The Rising Smoke, The Crow, The Haywain, The Sword, The Corpse. Each name bore whispers, ancient knowledge, great power, and terrible responsibility. Together, they showed her the warp and weft of the stars, how their paths guided the lives of mere mortals. This, they said, was now her world. 

Now the stars floated all around her, and the currents flowed over her body and caressed it. She swam between the stars, and each one twinkled its own stories. They told her things: the ways the world could walk, the ways she could walk the world. She saw a ship and a mountain of jade in five colors. She saw a great black hand reaching from the depths of the ocean. She saw swords and spears and shields arranged in a mandala, surrounding a mask that covered a face of thorns. She saw three stars fall, to join a fourth as four new ones arose behind her. She saw a shadow fall over islands below, and beastial shapes both pale and ashen rise from those shadows. She saw lights ahead, and the lights of the stars above faded as the world’s tapestry unwove and reformed. The stars returned, brighter than ever, and she swam on.

As Feferi swam, she felt herself being drawn to a swirling vortex. In the center of this vortex, there was a figure that she could not clearly see. She swam closer, and saw that it was a woman, clothed in flowing, yet simple robes, of purple. The woman turned to her and beckoned her closer. 

Curious, the troll obeyed. As she drew near, she could see the solemn line of the woman’s lips and the long points of her fingernails. Threads dangled from her robes and body, like the strands of a spider’s web. 

The woman made a slight bow as Feferi stopped to float there in front of her. With a single delicate finger, she drew in the air, leaving lines of violet light. A stroke down, then a curve back up, sweeping down and around again, finished with a stroke across the first. 

Without quite knowing why, Feferi held out her hand. Gently, solemnly, the woman took the sign she had made in her own hands and placed it in Feferi’s, enveloping it as her fingers curled around the light. She could feel the light flow into her. It was cool and calm and silent, like the stillness after a storm. 

Feferi looked up, into the woman’s eyes, and the gaze that met hers told her what that light was. 

A gift. 

A power. 

A burden. 

A duty. 

An Ending. 

Feferi woke, and her eyes reflected the stars.

For a brief moment, everything in the world made sense, and then it was gone. 

A letter sat on the sand next to her. Curious, she opened it, and understood. 

“Wait for me, my new student. You’ll learn who I am, in time. For now, you have other things to learn. Listen to your dreams. Take the ship that’s offered. Keep the faith. Strife shares a bed with success. 

Garet.” 

Doubt, in her mind, had washed away. Now it was replaced by a sense of purpose, of wonder. The stars would guide her. 

As Feferi stood and turned to face Kanaya, who had come to wake her up, she knew with certainty that things were going to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Exaltation, now with 100% more foreshadowing! Also 68.52% more Sidereal headcanons.


	10. Eye of the Unconquered Sun

==> Dirk: Exalt 

The work they were assigned was not going to be exceptionally difficult, according to Bulwark, who had introduced himself and his companions as Alchemical Exalted. The two would be assigned some engineering work among the people in the lower echelons of Project Razor. 

“It’s a gamble,” Bulwark explained when asked what this mysterious project was. “A long shot that might be our only chance, long-term.” 

The group sat on a rattling tram car, bouncing between empty spaces in the walls of steel and machinery that made up the corridors of Autochthonia. On the way to their future worksite, there was little to do other than talk. 

“A lot of people don’t want to admit it,” continued Bulwark, “but our world is dying. Or at least that’s what it seems like. Resources are harder and harder to find, forcing us to risk more and more as we have to steal from caches guarded by elementals. Things like that cogwheel dragon you fought, and worse. And lately it seems like more and more children are stillborn. No soul to enter the body.” The silver man hung his head. “We’re not alone. Every other nation is slowly choking. Some claim that it’s all a test from the Great Maker, in whose body we dwell, but… I can’t believe that. You won’t catch me saying that in public, though. Others think the Maker’s abandoned us, but I can’t believe that either. We’re here because he wanted us here. And Sirin….” Bulwark fell silent, as Clarion gave him a look. 

“Project Razor’s a risk beyond anything we’ve taken before,” said Clarion. “There’s a holy book, the Tome of the Great Maker. It tells us that millennia ago, we came here at the behest of Autochthon, from a world known as Creation, filled with beings called the sunlit heroes. A world where food grew on its own, rather than being drawn from the body of the Maker. A world filled with light and prosperity.”

“So why leave?” Dirk wondered.

Clarion shrugged. “Nobody can agree. The Tome is vague. Some say we were chased here by a great enemy. Others say that the sunlit heroes were actually monsters. Most lectors say we’re here because we were blessed by Autochthon, chosen by him for some great purpose.”

Equius adjusted his glasses. “And these lectors, I assume, take exception to this risk of yours.” 

Clarion and Bulwark nodded. “Yugash is the only nation willing to take the risk. One of the autocrats, a man named Kerok, thinks that this is the only way for us to survive. And we’re on a time limit. Every nation moves through the body of the Maker, and soon we’ll be in easy reach of more than just Jarish. Some might want to take our research by force.”

Dirk took all this in, calculating. They were still about an hour away from the actual city - a patropolis, whatever that was - where they would be working. He had a lot of thinking to do. 

As time wore on, Equius fell asleep. Dirk envied the troll. Every part of his brain was still fizzing and sparking, trying to see which angles would get them out of here the quickest. Something about this place didn’t sit right with him, and there was a faint buzzing in the back of his mind, telling him that he still had something to do, some kind of goal other than seeing some sunlight and his friends again. He tried not to think about the auto-responder. Instead, he tried to solve the puzzle of the wireless signal, and returned to his phone to get whatever information he could. 

A loud shifting nearby robbed him of his attention. Equius was tossing and turning on the tram bench. They were far from comfortable, sure, but he’d seemed peaceful enough before. Now, however, he was making strange coughing noises and rolling like Shakespeare in his grave at the thought of a juggalo reinterpretation of Hamlet. Some of the coughing sounded vaguely like words Dirk recognized. There was a sound like what he thought had to be a name, too: “Nepeta.” 

Dirk reached out, thinking that the troll was caught up in a nightmare. Bulwark stopped him. “Don’t bother. Let him rest. We’re not far from the station anyway.” 

Suddenly, the tram car pitched and rolled. Equius was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. Dirk shifted quickly, standing and keeping his balance. The Alchemicals picked themselves up, having been taken by surprise. 

Another shock hit the car. There was the horrendous shriek of shearing metal, and balance became a secondary concern in the face of gravity trying to claim its due. 

Dirk braced himself in time to prevent being thrown to the floor as the car smashed through a wall. Everything bounced, then bounced again, before it rolled to a stop, upside-down, surrounded by the sounds of broken machinery and screams of pain. 

The group hauled themselves upright. With the kind of unity brought on only by urgency, they crowded to the tram door. It didn’t move. Everyone instinctively cleared the way as Equius backed up. With a small grunt of effort and a short run-up, he kicked the doors clean off. Not stopping to admire the feat, the group rushed out to a scene of total carnage. 

Wreckage littered a chamber that seemed to have been cut in half by a falling wall. Debris was piled everywhere, with oil and wires spilling out from under them, or at least most of them. Some had limbs sticking out at gut-wrenching angles, and blood leaking out from underneath. Bulwark immediately rushed to the nearest pile that looked like it might have a survivor, hauling debris away. 

His efforts uncovered a woman in heavy engineering uniform, breathing heavily. Blood trickled from her mouth. She did still seem to conscious, at least enough to carry on a brief conversation with her rescuer. Bulwark laid her down gently and rejoined the group. 

“Okay,” he said, his voice indicating his full command of the situation. “There’s a lot of injured. We save who we can. The station here is also a research facility for Project Razor. We need to preserve as much as possible. According to the station head, there’s something going on with the machinery. Some kind of distortion quake. Someone needs to find it and shut it down.” 

Dirk lunged and cleared half the distance of the room in a momentary blur. “I’ll go,” he said. 

Bulwark blinked. “Well. Alright then. Six and I are on medical duty. Clarion, you and Equius are on rescue. The control room is on the floor above us. We need full power there. That’ll stop these distortion quakes. I’ll explain why later. Now, move!” 

Dirk did so. It was easy enough to find the room in question. It was even easier for his mechanically-inclined mind to understand the extent of the damage - four machines that looked like consoles were also looking very smashed. He knelt down to inspect it. Yes, he could repair it. All he had to do was restore power and turn them all on. 

A sudden quake shook the room, nearly taking him off his feet. A bag of tools fell to the ground, conveniently nearby. 

Dirk picked it up. Inside, there were notes, schematics, detailed instructions on the workings of the machinery. Now he knew what to do. _Right,_ he told himself. _Focus._

Sharp eyes darted between wires, mechanisms, and parts, jumping like the lightning of his thoughts. Solutions calculated themselves. If the distortion, whatever that was, was the cause of all this, then the best way to fix it was to turn everything on and activate it - that would, he predicted, stabilize everything. 

As Dirk fairly flew from device to device, words began to flow, emerging from under his breath as they focused his mind on the task at hand. 

“Kickin’ back  
Fightin’ back  
Turning the tide on the attack   
That knocked us off track  
I’m just killing time   
Get to get back the lifeline  
Sparks and gears, I’m just fine  
Fix all your shit with just a rhyme”

Scrap metal and parts leapt into place under his skilled fingers. The notes and schematics flickered past his mind’s eye, showing him what he needed to know in time with the poetry. 

“Bullets can’t stop me  
Blades couldn’t break me  
So what makes you think, G  
That I’m gonna fail?  
Words and parts flying like hail  
Coffin, meet the motherfuckin’ nail”

Another quake shook the station, knocking tools and parts into the air. Dirk scooped them up before they hit the ground, feeling the flow and tempo shift as he did. 

“I’ve beaten the unbeatable  
Broken the unbreakable   
Kicked so much ass  
First class  
I’m grabbing immaterial  
While I’m waxing lyrical  
My brain can’t be beat  
So bring on the heat”

Two of the four machines had already flickered back to life, and a third was well on its way. Dirk’s form was a blur, gaining speed as his words flowed faster. 

“No surrender  
Stalwart defender  
Invincible  
Untouchable  
Son, I build toys and games  
Better than you using half of my brains  
Got the end in my sight  
So, sweet prince -  
 _Good night._ ” 

With that final rhyme, Dirk hit a button. The array burst back into life. Crackling energy jumped from the machines into the air, seeming to hit an invisible wall. There was a great, soundless tearing, and the air opened up. 

It was like a window through space. Dirk could only stare. On the other side, a short, broad person of indeterminate gender leaned over a machine of some kind, backlit by ghastly green torches. Their features were obscured by large spatters of blood, and it quickly became apparent that they were partly propped up by the long, needle-like javelins of bone stuck through their body, as well as what looked like a saber of burnished gold held in their hand. 

A heavy, metallic noise behind them caused them to check back over their shoulder. Their face snapped back to Dirk’s, carrying an expression of pure desperation. They flung out a hand, but before anything could be done, three more javelins struck home in their back. 

Dirk, not knowing what else to do, held out his own hand. The figure gave him a final nod of recognition, before hauling themselves upright and using the last of their strength to plunge their blade into the machine. 

Just as a shadow rose behind them, and the machine began to explode, the window in the air snapped shut. It did not, however, close in time to prevent something from coming through.

Dirk felt something hit him, and then sunlight, like the first clouded rays of sunset over the ocean, filled the room. 

Things felt… clearer, now. He knew exactly what to call these strange machines - Elsewhere Distortion Drivers. He knew what powered them - flows of Essence. He knew exactly what Autochthonia meant. 

Most importantly, he knew the name of the one he had just met - Savasa, of Thorns.

Knowledge. That was power, that was everything. It was salvation. And now it flooded into Dirk, guiding him. 

Within a scant few moments, each one of the drivers was functioning normally. There would be no more distortion quakes. A full readout of what had happened and why was displayed on one of the crystalline panels. The tools were sorted, as were the spare parts and salvaged materials. Dirk turned to go down the stairs, and saw Bulwark standing in the doorway, staring. 

“You… you just keep springing surprises on us, don’t you?” said the Moonsilver man - a term Dirk realized he now knew. 

“If it’s the machinery, I can explain,” said Dirk. 

Wordlessly, Bulwark shook his head, and pointed at Dirk’s forehead, where a golden mark - a circle, full at the top but with an empty lower half - had blazoned itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirk waxing lyrical  
> Making this chapter full  
> Of really hard shit to write  
> But I had to do things right  
> Wouldn't be Dirk without some sick rhymes  
> And I know my own are far from sublime  
> But I'll keep trying 'til I get better  
> Get my skill with words right down to the letter


	11. Primal Might Surge

==> Sollux and Aradia: Exalt 

The only thing either one of them would be able to recall later was the surging feeling of power, rushing through their bodies, filling them from the inside out. It was not like they were gaining something, however - they felt as though they were growing to be _more_.

Sollux had curled up, reflexively trying to contain the surge of energy as it filled him. Pure, bubbling power coursed through his body, and there was a moment of fear as he thought it might rip through his limbs and tear him apart from the inside. His blood was on fire, and lightning had filled his lungs. Every inch of his bony frame was terribly, exultantly alive, even as it hit the floor and left him dizzy. 

There was a roar, titanic and profound, and Sollux realized it was coming from him - from some deep, primeval place within him that millennia of civilization hadn’t been able to wring out of his DNA. It was the roar that came from the spark of life, the very thrill of breathing, the primal energy that suffused each living thing and made it grow. He could feel sparks jumping between his horns and from his body to the ground. His eyes glimmered with pure Essence, burning like red and blue lanterns. 

Meanwhile, Aradia witnessed the rise and fall of eons like the tide. Cities grew like trees until they withered and died, only to be reclaimed by the wilds. Life and death spun, wheeling in an intimate waltz before her eyes. This was a truth, one she already knew, and had experienced firsthand, but now it was etching itself onto her bones. The energy of the cycle pulsed through her, from her, like the ticking of time, but it reached into her like time never had. 

The cycle, she now realized, was within her - life, death, birth, and rebirth all intrinsic to her being, as it was with all beings, a potential now given strength and form. Once, she had been confined to knowing only one part of this vast, impossible, eternally graceful dance, but in this moment she saw and understood it all. She could feel the power of it all, spiraling from her body like her horns, lifting her off the ground. It was a dance, a glorious ballroom that encompassed the whole world, and the music of it conducted her, teaching her how to direct it even as she participated. 

The rush abated, slowly, but the two could still feel it, running under their skin like the flow of their blood. After moments of silence, the trolls burst out laughing, sheer exuberance rippling forth despite the gravitas of the temple and the watching Primordial. 

“Holy thit,” breathed Sollux. “Ith thith what going God Tier ith like?”

Aradia was beaming - almost literally, as golden-green light had risen behind her and was now fading. “No, Sollux. This is even _better_ than God Tier.” She stopped. “Wait. Sollux. Your eyes!”

“What about them?”

Gold-green fires danced behind the lenses of his glasses, flickering across the red and blue surfaces. As she told him this, he whipped them off, revealing that they had merely reflected the sparks of power that were held in his actual eyes, skipping over them like lights passing over glass. 

He looked up from the lenses in his hands to a realization of his own. “AA. Your hair. It’th _blooming_.” 

Delicate crimson flowers had bloomed in her hair, nestling in the curve of her horns. They had no apparent roots or stems, but they looked as vibrant and lively as if they’d been growing in a greenhouse for months. Small tendrils of green, laced through her horns, held them securely in place.

“Such is the mark of my power,” said Gaia, shocking the two out of their reverie. “But now, Chosen, I must sour my gift with a burden for you to bear, as well.”

“Thith wathn’t part of the deal,” said Sollux, whose annoyance at this apparent demand vanished as he realized he wasn’t suffering a stress-induced headache anymore. 

“Was it not?” The Primordial’s voice carried a hint of smugness. “I told you that you were to be my messengers. This is to be your delivery.”

The stones of the temple floor shifted and clattered aside as something rose from the depths - a great tree, holding in its boughs a casket of what looked like living wood. 

“Take it with you, but do not open it. It is to be delivered, by you personally, into the hands of Lytek and Lytek alone.” 

“Where do we find him?” asked Aradia. 

“You must enter Heaven. Your gifts will carry you to the gates within Creation. If nothing else, then you may find me there as well, in the form of the Emerald Mother.” 

Aradia nodded, a determined grin playing about her lips. “Then all you need to do is point us towards Creation.” 

The foliage of Gaia’s face twisted into a smile, or at least a vegetative approximation of one. “I will do more than that. The Wyld has a way of twisting and warping the minds and bodies of those who dwell in it for too long. My power has bolstered your minds, but your physical forms will need another form of protection. Go outside and you shall meet the one I have entrusted to guide you.”

Giving one another a questioning look, the duo took the casket - a rough thing, no longer than Aradia’s forearm, light and delicate while simultaneously seeming indestructible - and left the temple. At the base of the many stone steps, several of the hunched, robed figures had gathered, and they bowed to the trolls as they descended. Another figure also greeted them there, as tall and slender as the others were small. His pointed ears and lupine features were highlighted by the sweeping cloak of threads he covered his rangy frame with, and underneath that were garments that, Aradia thought, Kanaya would have died to see. 

“My greetings, friends,” said the elfin figure. “I am correct in believing that you two are the Lady Gaia’s Chosen, yes?” 

Not knowing quite what to say, the two merely nodded. 

“Ah, most excellent. I am called Caenbaehr, though some know me as the Scion of Threads or the Tailor-Man.” He bowed with a flourish. “The good Lady of the Green has asked me to give you both guidance and proper travel wear - two things I can supply and supply well.” 

Before either could react, the Tailor-Man had grabbed Sollux and dragged him roughly off to the side, and already lengths of gossamer tape and various other tailoring implements had spun out of his cloak, hovering in the air and taking the full measure of the troll’s body. “Now, now, don’t squirm so. You’ll throw off my measurements. But there is, of course, one other thing I shall require.” 

In between wrenching himself out of the grip of a pair of calipers, and spitting curses, Sollux asked what that was. 

“I need you to tell me your story.” 

“My _what_?”

“Tell me your story. It’s the way I work, you know. A person’s story is the best thing to armor them in, especially all the way out here.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Caenbaehr looked almost offended. “The Wyld is _nothing but_ story. If you don’t want to be caught up in something you don’t belong in, you need to wrap yourself in your own.” 

“... I have no wordth to dethcribe how much I completely and platonically _hate thith plathe_.” 

The tailor paused. “Platonically hate? Interesting choice of words.” His eyebrows rose in a clear invitation for exploration.

“I- nope. Not going to bother. I’ll jutht tell you your damn thtory.” 

“Ah, very good.” The measuring resumed. “Once I’ve outfitted you both, it shall be my pleasure to bring you to the goblin markets. There, we shall make our way onward.” 

Sollux began his story. It took a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sollux is not having any Trollshipping quadrant bullshit. That's for off-camera exposition! Not like the on-camera exposition I throw around all over in this chapter.


	12. Righteous Lion Defense

==> Jane: Exalt 

The inn was not what anyone, by any stretch of the imagination, would call a four-star. Unless it was Dirk, attempting to be ironic. But Dirk wasn’t there, and that fact (and two others like it) had struck deep into Jane’s heart and buried itself there.

Where _were_ they? 

The fact that she had found herself in this strange city with two trolls, albeit ones she barely knew, gave her a glimmer of hope that her closest friends were out there, somewhere. But for now she was stuck having to survive without them, trapped with two mostly-strangers in a city that traded in people’s lives as well as their coin. 

She dug her fingernails into the windowsill of their dingy inn room. Her blood was still boiling, and the memory of those gaunt faces only made it boil hotter. 

This had to change. 

Her better sense told her that it wouldn’t be wise to make waves. It told her to stay quiet, to just do the job she’d been hired to do, to survive until she could find her friends. 

_Fuck. That._

Those gaunt faces stuck in her mind. They stared at her, bitter accusation in their blank gazes, whenever she closed her eyes. Her outrage at the fact that people would sell - _sell_ \- their fellow humans burned in her chest like a bonfire. 

Jane turned to look back at the door. Terezi and Vriska were downstairs, buying some changes of clothing and dinner to bring up so they could discuss strategy. The sun had not yet quite set, and the shadows on the streets were beginning to lengthen. If there was a time to do something, now was it.

With barely a second thought, Jane vaulted out the second-story window, rolled off a nearby tarpaulin stretched over an abandoned merchant stall, landed gracefully on the street, and dashed around the misty street corner. 

It wasn’t hard to locate a slave pen. All she’d had to do was follow the street she’d seen the cart on. The beige and brown of her robes blended with the dusty stones of the buildings, keeping her hidden in the mists. The pen itself was left with only a single, sleepy guard and what looked to be a rusty lock blazoned with something that must have been a brand - a gemstone, from this distance - to keep the poor unfortunates in. Not exactly difficult obstacles for a detective, but even simpler for a master prankster. 

Slipping around behind the guard via a nearby alley, Jane raised her hood and pulled out a handful of the silver coins they’d been given for expenses. She tossed one in the air a couple of times, getting a feel for the weight of it. 

She nodded, satisfied. This would do. 

The heavy _clink_ of the coin hitting paving stone echoed in the foggy street. The guard jerked awake, clearly trying to give the impression that he’d always been awake, why would I be sleeping on duty, I’ve been alert the whole time sir and may you find it in your heart to increase the pay for a poor guard sir….

Another three _clinks_ in quick succession drew his attention. Finally, Jane tossed the satchel of coins she’d been given. The guard looked around, bewildered at his sudden rush of good fortune. 

Jane quietly cleared her throat, then spoke in as deep and mysterious a voice as she could muster. “Witness, mortal!” she said, and stifled a chuckle as the man nearly jumped out of his skin. “Your dedication and service have been recognized by the gods of fortune! Feel the blessings within the, er, sacred coin pouch!” 

The guard only hesitated for a moment before bending down to pick up the purse. He weighed it in his hands, and the weight drew out a look of naked greed as he realized it would have to be at least a month’s pay. His look would later be soured by the large collection of pebbles replacing most of the coins he assumed would be within. 

“Go, now, and leave this miserable post of yours behind! They don’t pay you enough for such trifling duties!”

The guard nodded furiously, not taking his eyes off the pouch. 

“Spend free, and be free!” 

With the clatter of a dropped spear and a jingle of dropped keys, the guard took off down the street, presumably for a nearby bar. 

Smiling triumphantly to herself, Jane picked up the rusted key ring, swung it jauntily, and strolled over to the lock with the satisfaction of a job well done. 

As she worked the lock - a feat made much more difficult than it should have been thanks to the deteriorated state of both mechanism and key - she checked the pen. Only two figures sat in the gloom. The rattling clack of the lock finally springing open started them both out of their fitful slumber. 

A gaunt woman and stunted-looking child, thin and sickly pale despite the dark tones of their skin, looked over to her. She gave them as reassuring a smile as she could, and waved. 

“Keep your voices down, friends,” Jane whispered. “The guard’s gone off on a little holiday, and I’m here to help you do the same!” 

Neither of the would-be slaves reacted. 

“... well, come on then! Up you get! I don’t know when they’re supposed to change shifts so let’s get a move on!” 

Woman and child both stared. And… damn! That sounded like footsteps coming around the corner. Losing patience, Jane grabbed the two by their wrists and hauled them out. Now they seemed to be getting the message. They quickly began to keep pace with her as she darted around the corner, just as shapes began to loom out of the mist behind them. 

There was nearly a full minute of uninterrupted flight before a voice echoed out behind them: “Hey! You! Where are you running off to? Get back here with that merchandise!” 

Jane directed her rescuees down the alley behind the inn. She knelt down, motioning for them to stay hidden, low, behind one of the folded-up stalls. Once they were secure, she told them to stay there until she came back, and darted back out and around to the front of the inn. 

Perfect timing. She got inside the door just as pursuit rounded the street corner. Thinking quickly, Jane scanned the room. Her eyes alighted on a rich-looking gentleman near the stairs, drinking with a few associates. Each one of them had some article of clothing inscribed with a simple symbol - a hand holding a coin. 

_Aha…._

Jane sidled past them, surreptitiously slipping the rusted keys into the folds of the gentleman’s cloak. When he stood up, they would fall out. Now she rushed up the stairs as fast as suspicion would allow, making a beeline for her shared room. 

Vriska and Terezi stared at her as she slipped quickly inside and shut the door. The former raised a viciously quirked eyebrow, but Jane busied herself with one of the piles of clothing sitting on the hard beds. “Don’t mind me,” she said in a low voice. “Went out for a walk and some ruffians followed me back. Got a plan to draw them off, though.” 

Midway through pulling off her robes and yanking on the simple cotton smock, there was a harsh knock at the door. Jane darted behind where it would open to. She nodded to the trolls. 

Vriska opened the door. Two harried-looking mercenaries, carrying drawn blades, waited. They visibly blanched at the troll’s appearance. 

There was a moment of stunned silence. “Well?” she demanded.

One of them started stammering. “Ah, um, we’re looking for some runaway slaves. Someone stole them. They fled here and-” 

The other mercenary interrupted roughly. “Clear the way, freak. We’re searching the room.” 

Vriska hesitated, having caught on to Jane’s plan. “Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea….” Her eyes flicked almost unnoticeably to where Jane was standing behind the door. Almost. 

The ruder of the two intruders pushed Vriska aside, growling, “Nice try….” 

What happened next was that, in very rapid succession, he pulled the door aside, revealed Jane with the smock pulled halfway over her head, recoiled at the harpy-in-a-windstorm shriek she let out, and felt a firebrand of pain across his cheek as she slapped him hard enough to send his helmet spinning to the floor. 

The other mercenary flushed a brilliant red, began apologizing profusely, and hauled his still-dazed partner out of the room. “Oh gods, many apologies ladies, so sorry, we had no idea, forgive us, we’ll just be on our way now.” With a final, embarrassed grab for the fallen helmet, he fairly fled the dingy room. 

With a sigh of relief, Jane finished pulling the smock on. Everything went as planned. Vriska was smirking. Terezi’s lips had twisted into very nearly a question mark shape. “What exactly happened just now?” she asked. 

Jane shrugged. “Just a couple of ill-mannered hooligans. Looking for some thief, I think. Can’t imagine why they thought it was me.” 

There was some shouting from downstairs, followed by a scuffle. 

“And that was…?”

“Oh, probably those two finding the man I planted the keys on.” Jane inwardly exulted. This was _fun!_

Vriska laughed. “Hah! I’m starting to think you might not be completely boring, Crocker.” She snatched up a scrap of bread and started munching away. “So, what’d you steal?”

Jane began rummaging through the piles of clothing. “Nothing much. Just… liberated a couple of things that nobody really had the right to take in the first place. These are spare?” She pointed at the clothes she had pulled out. At Vriska’s nod, she bundled them up and headed to the window. With a jaunty wave at Vriska’s smirk and Terezi’s knowing smile, she dropped back down to the alley. 

In the lengthening shadows, her eyes took a while to adjust. She was forced to re-orient herself in regards to the many stalls and other things strewn about. Gradually, the darkness seemed to brighten. 

“That was a brave thing you did, and a kind thing you do now.” 

Jane froze. The voice had come from behind her, but her back was to a wall. A wall that had been, when she had checked it not ten seconds ago, totally devoid of decoration, living or otherwise.

“Don’t be afraid. I know you, Jane Crocker. I have watched you from afar and seen the courage with which you have faced adversity.”

She whirled around. A man leaned against the wall, or at least it seemed like a man. His visage, as well as most of his body, was obscured by a soft, radiant glow, making him seem ethereal and unreal. He strode forward. 

“You are tired, homesick, and miss your friends dearly. Yet despite every weight upon your soul, you cannot bear to leave others in need of aid. Your heart is strong, my child, and you shall never want for skill to match it now.” 

As he moved to embrace her - she had stopped in plain awe of the fatherly figure - she saw that he had four arms. Two hands set upon her shoulders, and two clasped her arms with great warmth. He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, solemnly, then pulled her into a deep, heartfelt embrace. 

The thunder of his voice rumbled through his chest as he spoke, and Jane felt a profound safety and surety as he held her. “I have already seen that you can do great things. Trust yourself. My strength and guile are yours. But now you must go. They need you.” 

Jane blinked, and suddenly she was alone again in the alley. The darkness seemed to have disappeared, as if the vision had taken it with it. She shook her head. No time for silliness. She had something to deliver. 

With the darkness gone, it was easy to find where she had hidden her newfound friends. She rapped gently on the side of the stall, and when they emerged from the little hideaway, she smiled brightly. 

“Here you go, you two,” she said, handing them the bundles of clothes. “A fresh change. And some money to get you out of here, at the very least.” 

The woman seemed to have found her tongue. “Thank you,” she said, as though she didn’t believe that Jane’s actions were genuine. “We… we can’t repay you.” Her voice carried a strange, lilting accent.

“No need. Just get changed and get going. Those guards caused a right old ruckus looking for you, so I don’t doubt they’ll be out again when they find out they grabbed the wrong bucko. There should be enough for a room at an inn here and something to start you out tomorrow.” 

The woman and child wasted no time in pulling off their slave rags. Jane turned away, for modesty’s sake, but not before she noticed a strange, artful tattoo at the base of the woman’s throat. Her curiosity would have to wait, though. Night was falling soon. 

As they finished, the woman said, “Where I am from, we do not forget our debts. Please, at least tell me the name of our rescuer.” 

Jane hesitated. Perhaps it would be unwise to give out her real name if she was going to be working for a Guildsman. But - ah, yes, there was something….

“They, er, used to call me the Maid of Life,” she said. “You can call me that if you like.”

“Then that is what we shall call you. Thank you, Maid of Life. The faith I was taught was wrong about you.” 

Jane stopped. “Pardon?”

“They call you Anathema. But you have offered us kindness beyond measure. You are no monster, even if the ring upon your brow would have others call you so.” 

A bit of mirror, glinting in the clutter, caught Jane’s eye. A simple circle of gold had alighted on her face, sitting there like a lamp in the gloom. Perturbed, she turned back to the freed slaves. “I… it doesn’t matter. Go on. Get back home.” 

Nodding, woman and child fled into the streets. Jane turned back to the mirror, seeing the ring begin to fade. 

Above, Terezi stood at the window and sniffed. Above all the stink of the city, something had left the faintest whiff of sunflowers and fresh bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jane's not having any of your Guild slavery bullshit. Welcome to the party, Janey.


	13. Sun-Heart Furnace Soul

==> Karkat: Awaken 

Slowly, Karkat opened his eyes. 

The crystal was gone. The voices was gone. Something… _something_ lingered in his mind, but it was dormant. He could hear jangling, dissonant noise faintly in the distance. 

Oh… kay. Karkat stared at the dusty reddish ceiling, thinking to himself. Keep the rage in, for now. Keep it back until there’s a good time for an explosion. Namely, when there was someone to get caught in the blast. Until then, take stock of the situation, if only to find the most worthy target of a stream of curses.

Item the first: where am I? 

It felt like a bed. A very soft bed, but a bed nonetheless. Something in Karkat’s gut squirmed in visceral memory, clearly still uncomfortable at the thought of the quest beds and what went on in them. And clearly, whoever had put him there knew jack fucking shit about trolls, because if they had, he’d have woken up in a recuperacoon. 

Item the second: is there anyone else around? 

This question was abruptly answered as he felt himself dragged roughly out from under the covers and suspended, upside-down, in midair. There was a figure in the otherwise-empty doorway, and the first thing Karkat noticed about them was a pair of eyes that glinted like iridescent beetles. The second thing was that their hair seemed to shift and move like the light of the sun in this hellish place, although it was an even richer green. The third thing was that they had no shirt to speak of, which, given what he had learned of human social taboos, was among the top. It was also pretty taboo among most of Alternia, come to think of it, but this figure had very little in the way of trollish features. 

“Finally!” said the emerald-eyed woman. “I thought you’d be awake by now. Glad to see my calculations were correct.” Karkat had the distinct impression that if she wore glasses, she’d have adjusted them by the bridge. 

Target acquired. 

“First off,” he led, allowing enough vitriol into his voice to qualify as a warm-up, “where in the most gods-forsaken pits of any hell do you get off kidnapping me?” 

The stranger giggled. For some reason this disturbed Karkat on a truly new level, but he kept it back under a heaving sea of rage. There was a thought niggling at the back of his mind. He ignored it. 

“Secondly, if you don’t let me down and tell me where the fuck I am, I swear I am going to rip your eyes out of their sockets and force them down your protein chute so hard you’ll be tasting optic fiber in your rumble spheres.” He was in full form now - letting the force of his fury dictate his threats and give them vehemence, though not enough to be spitting incoherently. He forced himself to reign it in, however; he had been just a bit nonsensical towards the end.

The thought poked him again. He continued ignoring it.  
“Third, you can shove your calculations clear up your nook, past your digestive system, and out through your auricular sponge clots so that I can have the distinct pleasure of ramming them back up your nook for you to savor.” 

The thought gave up poking and whispered directly into his brain. _Isn’t it a bit… breezy in here?_ it asked. 

Karkat looked down. Er. Up. Rather than flush with embarrassment, he directed the energy back into his voice. “And fourth,” he snarled, “if you don’t give me my pants back _at the very least_ I am going to burn you, this building, and the surrounding lawnring to the ground in a blaze that will be seen from the Farthest fucking Ring. ‘That’s Karkat Vantas again,’ the horrorterrors will say. ‘Someone shouldn’t have pissed him off. If only they’d let him keep his pants.’ Then they’ll shake their zoologically dubious heads, or whatever passes for them, and get on with shitting out wigglers’ nightmares.” 

The stranger applauded, politely, then smiled in a way that was as unnerving as the giggle. “That was _impressive_ ,” she said. “I can see why they wanted you so bad. I shall enumerate my responses thusly: First, I tend to get off just downstairs. My bedroom’s down there, after all.”

Karkat’s face communicated “Too Much Information” in a way that no words ever could. 

“Second….” There was a brief sensation of a grip being released, and then the troll fell unceremoniously to the floor. “You’re in Malfeas. The Demon City. Specifically, the Brass Spire. You’ll love it here, I’m sure. Third, kinky.” 

Karkat’s face went beyond “Too Much Information” and entered an entirely new realm of disgust. Some part of him was screaming to throw holy water and a Bible at this woman, and he didn’t know why, or even what those were. 

“Fourth, your old clothes were completely fucking boring, not to mention ruined by your time in the Chrysalis. So I got rid of them. I think an anhule ate them. Hungry little shits, they are. I’ve made you some new clothes that fit your position much, much better.” 

Before he could begin to muster the beginnings of a gale-force tirade, the woman snapped her fingers and stepped out of the doorway. The creatures that followed her were, bizarrely, more tolerable than their apparent master. Despite appearing to be totally bald, unnaturally pinkish-purple human women (albeit wearing far more piercings than any being, human, troll, or otherwise, should wear), they moved with an easy grace. They had no clothes save jewelry, and this, for some reason, seemed to be as intrinsic to their being as breathing. They bore bundles of clothing, and descended upon Karkat before he could examine them further, whispering what he assumed to be instructions in a strange, unfamiliar tongue. They graciously helped him upright and began dressing him, in a manner that he could only interpret as respectful, as the woman continued to talk. 

“My full title, you should know, is First Daughter of Emerald Light, but you can just call me Light for short. You’re permitted to do that, since we’re both technically something like royalty here. If any of these lovely First Circle demons presumed to do that, well, I’d have every right to destroy them on the spot. Wouldn’t I, ladies?”

The apparent demons paused in their ministrations to bow their heads and murmur something like an apology. Something in Karkat rebelled at it. 

“Now, once the neomah are finished dressing you, I’d encourage you to take a look outside. The view from here is quite spectacular. After that, I’ll introduce you to Papa!”

“Who in the absolute, grub-munching _fuck_ is Papa?”

“You’ll see~!” said Light, somehow inserting a wiggly mark into the end of the sentence. Everything about Karkat was filled with a deep, burning, pure hatred for this woman. It was not a nice, black romance-type hate either. If given the opportunity, he would, without question, kill her. He would probably dance in a pool of her presumably candy-red blood, then spit on her corpse as it was lowered into its grave. 

The neomah finished and stepped back to a respectful distance. Karkat paused in his imagined victory celebration to survey his new outfit. 

The first thing was the kilt. There was no denying it. It was and would always be a kilt. It wasn’t a _bad_ kilt, as far as these things went. It was just the fact that it was, as had been stated, a kilt. It was not, as he would have preferred, pants. It was, however, made of some form of brilliant green silk, so soft to the touch it felt like wearing a cloud, and wrapped perfectly around his waist. There was a matching cloak, too. It was very comfortable, that was certain, and sat on his shoulders like the embrace of an old friend, but it was not, in point of fact, a shirt. The damnable woman had not given him one. What the fuck was this place’s problem with simple shirts? In “compensation,” the cloak was clasped with something forged of brass and black iron. It was a poor substitute for something that would prevent a bare torso. 

At least there were boots. They were made of some kind of ruddy leather, soft to the touch but clearly having been stripped off of something very much alive - they almost felt like they breathed on their own. Delicate filigree in black iron reinforced them, and they narrowed into a shape unlike any kind of boot Karkat had seen before. They felt more like some kind of dance slipper, but came up nearly to his knees. 

And then there were the bracers. They were verdigrised, as though they were utterly ancient, but glints of gold peeked out from behind the muck. A simple, round depression was carved into the left one, and it seemed unbearably empty and alone. The pair clasped around his forearms and hugged them tight, like they had known him long ago and didn’t want to let go. 

“Ah, good!” Light applauded herself. “I knew it would be a perfect fit. I don’t make mistakes when measuring. Now be a good boy and take a look out the window.” 

Karkat glared at her. She was not going to order him around. However, he did need to get some kind of bearings, so he flipped her the bird and walked over to look outside. 

The view was, he was forced to admit, spectacular. Miles and miles of streets stretched out below like an intricate mandala, fading into the horizon so that it seemed the city had no end. Creatures of every shape imaginable walked below - hulking apes with protrusions of bone and rust-red fur, wasps of glass, ashen spiders with the sunken, hollow faces of crying women, more of the same beast that had met him and put him in that crystal, and stranger things still. It was a panorama of utter chaos, and through it all there was nothing that sounded or looked exactly the same. The emerald sun blazed high above, its light somehow banishing any and all shadows. Off beyond the city, Karkat could see an impossibly tall mountain, its spire thrusting straight up into the sky without any visible peak. An elegant pagoda - yes, that was what they were called, he had to have read it in some human book once - sat in an almost-empty square, surrounded by bizarre plants. Far, far in the distance, he could see the silvery light reflecting off of what looked like a tangle of organic mirrors, sprouting from the ground. 

Light’s voice slithered into his thoughts. “Absolutely fucking magnificent, eh?” She had crept up behind him, whispering in his auricular sponge clot in what was most definitely a full invasion of personal space.

Karkat whirled, producing his sickle from thin air. A small, savage part of him felt incredibly rewarded to see her eyes widen fractionally as the very tip pricked her stomach. 

“Get that close to me again,” he hissed, “and I will fucking gut you, then use your entrails to jump rope. Understand?”

Light briefly looked as though his threat was a legitimate concern. Then she grinned, and took the sickle’s blade up in one hand. Karkat saw some of her skin flake away from her fingers, revealing brass plating etched with terrible spiral designs underneath. 

“I _really_ like you,” she said. “You’re going to be a godsdamned riot. This is going to be _fun_! So when you try and kill me, I hope you do it like you _mean_ it. Everyone else is too busy pissing themselves to be a challenge.” 

Karkat would have snarled, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of showing that he was angry. Well. Angrier than he had been. 

“Now come along. It’s time for you to meet Papa.” Dragging him by the sickle, the maddening woman led him up the stairs, to the roof. 

“Papa” turned out to be what seemed to be a tall, powerful man with stunningly beautiful auburn hair, totally bare of clothing except for the lower half of a short emerald robe and a blackened leather apron. His back was to the two of them, as he hammered away at some project on a blazingly black anvil, lit by cuprous flames from a nearby furnace. 

As they approached, the man tossed the hunk of metal he was working into a tub full of faintly greenish water. The water hissed and bubbled like a pool of acid as the metal rapidly cooled, and the man wiped his brow. 

“This forge,” he said in a rough baritone that roasted the air like hot coals, “is far too inferior to get any decent work done. I hope you’ll be up to the task of learning with fourth-hand equipment.” 

The man turned. His eyes, burning like emeralds in sunlight, pierced through Karkat and looked into his core. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I was wondering when the race made by the architects of the Games would join us. I bid you welcome, Karkat Vantas, newly-crowned Green Sun Prince. I am Ligier, though you may refer to me as ‘Master.’ I see you have already met Light.” He turned to the woman, face as stern as a mountain. “I hope you’ve been behaving yourself.” 

“Of course, Papa!” Light beamed. 

“Hmm.” Ligier did not seem convinced. He turned back to Karkat. “I assume you slept well. The nature of the Chrysalis is not one conducive to the rest that beings such as you require. We left you to recover.”

Karkat’s voice failed him. 

Ligier strode over and immediately checked both of Karkat’s eyes, holding them open as he turned the troll’s head left to right. Powerful smith’s fingers laid themselves across his throat, checking his pulse. Finally, he poked Karkat directly in the forehead, leaving a feeling like a flame had brushed against it. 

The smith snorted. “Overwhelmed, I see. Pfah. No different from the rest. Mayhap he’ll last a touch longer, since he seems to have slightly thicker skin.” Ligier rapped gently on Karkat’s head, just between the horns. “You in there, boy?”

Annoyance pierced the veil of awe muffling Karkat’s mind. He blinked, then swatted at a hand that was no longer there. “Hands off, dickmunch.” It was a weak response, especially for him, but it was all he could muster. 

Ligier laughed. “You still have your spirit! Good. You’ll need it. Your teachings begin now, boy.” The demon turned back to the forge. “First lesson. We’ll take that stick you call a weapon and turn it into something worthy of a Prince of Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karkat, Karkat, Karkat... what have you gotten yourself into?
> 
> As a note, my ideal voice for Ligier (as well as most Malfeas-like beings, if not Malfeas himself) has always been Liam O'Brien and that smoulder he has for a voice. I'm hoping my narration got that across. Goddamn, that voice. Ligier in particular I keep thinking sounds like either Illidan Stormrage or Leviathan from Skullgirls, so there you have it. 
> 
> As for the other major player in this chapter, say hello to Light. You met her before, but now you really get to know her. She's nothing but trouble. Much like her creator. 
> 
> Also holy shit you guys have no idea how hard it is for me to keep my use of "cuprous" to once a chapter. It is a PERFECT word for anything firey in Malfeas because it's so evocative. 
> 
> My final note is that for this chapter, you might want to read it while listening to "Black Rose Green Sun." It's one of my major musical inspirations for Malfeas as a setting.


	14. Destiny-Knitting Entaglement

Once, there was a maiden who kept a secret  
Her parents knew that she had it  
But they did not know what it was  
Every day she looked at her hidden treasure  
And played with it  
Until it begged to be fed with more secrets  
Her parents grew fearful  
But they could not uncover it  
Until one day it grew big enough to consume them  
And the maiden laughed, for that had been her secret all along  
“To have power is to be prey to it,” she said.

==> Beggar: Play 

Gentle music - the soft airy tones of a simple wooden flute - floated over the streets of Jiara. Underneath the Imperial banners, still-proud citizens kept their heads high, if their eyes downcast, as they passed the Legion soldiers standing guard. At the end of the street, a weathered old beggar in rags of faded blue sat, playing the flute with skill that belied his age and frail hands.

From a doorway, shadowed out of the day’s heat, a child watched the beggar. Something about the music had entranced the boy, and he listened, rapt, as the beggar’s song took him on a journey past the city walls, through fields and forests. As the song finished, the beggar bowed his head and gestured, almost ritualistically, to the bowl at his feet. A few passerby dropped coins into the bowl, to which the beggar thanked them profusely. 

Slowly, as though in awe of the beggar, the boy approached, fumbling in his pocket for a coin. Eventually, the coin clinked into the bowl softly.

The beggar smiled beatifically. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Dragons bless you.”

The boy said nothing, just smiled shyly. 

“Let me show you my gratitude. Is there anything you wish for me to play?”

The boy thought for a moment, clearly embarrassed by the attention. After thinking it over, he whispered a name.

The beggar nodded. “Yes, yes, I know it well. My mother sang it to me.” 

The boy smiled. That was true for him, as well - it was why he had asked. It was his favorite. 

The beggar put the flute to his lips and began to play once more. The first notes of a song, long a part of Jiara’s history, began to dance over the cobbled streets. It had once been a marching song of its armies, an anthem to the spirit of the city-state. Now it was only a lullaby, sung out of earshot of the curfew enforcers.

Two soldiers, armor marked with the _mon_ of House Mnemon, took note. Sharing a brief glance, they began to march down the street, holding their spears upright with imperious discipline. As they approached, the boy shrank away, but the beggar seemed to ignore them.

Looming over the musician, one of the soldiers barked an order. He continued to play. The soldier repeated the order, more forcefully. The beggar played on. Rolling her eyes with the indignity of stooping to one of the heathen tongues of the Threshold, the solder growled, “Stop playing. Now.” 

As the boy ran and hid around the corner, the old man continued to play.

“Didn’t you hear me? Silence!”

The old man only paused to take a breath.

The soldier snarled, “Enough!”

_Crack._

The music cut off abruptly, as the soldier struck the old man with her spear butt. There was another _crack_ as the flute clattered to the ground. Reeling, the beggar grabbed for it, only to feel a boot come down on his fingers. As he cried out, the other soldier stomped down on the flute, shattering it. 

Desperately, the beggar scrambled to pick up the pieces. A vicious kick knocked him over. Once more, he tried to retrieve the remnants of his precious flute, and once more he was knocked over. The soldiers hounded him, boots finding ribs, stomach, knees, and shoulders. With efficient brutality, they drove him off, sending him crawling down the street and into an alley. 

Throughout all of this, the boy watched in transfixed horror. As the soldiers returned to their post, laughing and joking in the common tongue of the Realm, he fled, running as hard as he could for home. 

In the alley, the old man straightened up, rubbing his jaw. Those soldiers hadn’t been neglecting their training. Either that, or the Empire was making their boots heavier. He stretched and rolled his neck, the years falling away like a shed cloak. He shifted his clothes; the blue brightened and the frayed edges mended themselves. Rags became soft, hardy robes. 

Quick-Fingered Coshell, Chosen of Serenity, smiled to himself. Mission accomplished. 

The entire episode had been witnessed by the boy, and that had been the goal the whole time. The Loom of Fate had foretold that he would be a rich, rich man someday, and there would come a time when he would be called upon to make a choice. Now, when that time came, he would remember the old song of Jiara, and the old man who had been beaten by Imperial soldiers for playing it. This memory would lead him to offer kindness to another old man, playing another old song, and turning his back on a powerful “friend”... allied with an infernal cult. Thus, a threat to Creation’s safety was averted long before it could be fully established. Centuries of practice pointed to this being the ideal way to deal with threats. 

Coshell staggered down the alley, thankful for both his martial training and that nobody could see him. He was going to have some very nasty bruises. It was just as well, though. Armor might have raised suspicion, as might the use of Charms. And as the sacrifices demanded by his job went, taking a beating and having a few bruised ribs were not the greatest he’d had to make. 

The man paused. There was the faintest tingle in the air….

A soft blue light filtered into the alley. A lantern, ornately decorated with lapis lazuli, materialized and floated before him. A rounded slot, carved into the base, held a rolled-up scroll. Coshell took it and unfurled it, frowning. As he read through it, grief dug deep into his chest and nestled there. Tanera was dead. Her replacement had already been Chosen, as was standard practice among the Bureau of Destiny, but only a few knew who it was. There was no official memorial planned for the fallen agent - a true slap in the face to her friends and a grave insult to her memory. She had always forgone factional lines for the sake of the greater good. Of course, this could have left someone, or several someones, rather bitter, providing a reason for the insult. But to be so blatant? The politics of Heaven were getting worse by the day. Garet seemed to agree - Coshell could detect a heavier, angrier hand in the writing. No matter how cool the Chosen of Journeys tried to be, he had never been able to hide his feelings in his actions. 

The missive also contained new orders, passed down the official grapevine. Thorns was becoming more of a problem. Instinct told Coshell that this was connected to Tanera’s death. He hadn’t known what her last assignment was, but it had been something in that area. He himself was being assigned to join a group of Sijanese diplomats and learn what he could. About Thorns, about Mask of Winters, about the Deathlord’s plans… about Tanera, and what befell her.

So that was it. Not even the spymasters in the Bureau knew what had happened. They’d hold the memorial over his head until they’d heard all they wanted and more. And even then, they’d probably make him fill out truly excessive amounts of paperwork, even by the Bureau’s standards, before he would so much as see a mention of it. 

Coshell took a deep breath, stemming the tide of indignation rising in his chest. Anger, blind anger, wouldn’t help. He told himself to use the anger, to fuel himself with it. He had to do the job in front of him, and then he could make things right. The time would come. 

With a subtle flourish of Essence, Coshell disappeared down the dark alleyway. There was work to be done.

==> Shade: Strategize 

“I want a patrol out there. Now. The less we let the Bishop’s fanatics see of our territory, the better.” 

Eight eyes surveyed the map, inked on pale, faded parchment. A heavy, clawed finger stabbed at three points. 

“Here, here, and here. Send reinforcements.” The ghost’s tremendously deep voice carried the weight of experience and command. “If any of these places get overrun, we lose eyes on the Bloodless in places we can’t afford to. They’ve been too quiet lately to not be planning something.”

A heavy sigh caused the barrel chest to expand briefly, shifting the ill-fitted plates of soulsteel that formed the ghost’s breastplate. It had been disassembled and wired back together in order to fit the herculean physique of its new owner, and it creaked rustily as he shifted in his seat. 

“Damn it all. Not enough people…” he thought out loud. Suddenly, memory sparked behind his compound eyes. “Tal’guin, have the Shrikes come back yet?”

The lieutenant in question, a shade of a man who had once had sun-blackened skin and marble-white eyes, whipped off a quick salute to his leader. “They’re half a day’s travel away, boss.” 

Thrice-Dead Achiba, ghost warlord of Marama’s Fell and one of the last remnants of the terrifying kyzvoi race, nodded. “Find Whisper. Send him to relay new orders. I want them to patrol where our territory borders the Traveler’s Road.”

“Yessir.” Tal’guin jogged off. 

Achiba leaned back in his chair, which was carved from wood that had been long dead before it had even been cut down. It creaked under his weight - a frightening mass of muscle and dense bone, even despite the fact that it was ghostly and paled in comparison to what it had been in the prime of his life. He hissed through his fangs. Anyone looking at him for the first time, towering over everyone else in the room despite being seated, would have been startled to see what looked like a fusion of man and countless vicious beasts, all crammed into one mutant, humanoid frame. Long, ape-like arms ended in talon-tipped fingers. His face was a portrait of grotesquery, with the eight eyes of a spider and tusks from his lower lips like the jaws of a scorpion. The entirety of his body was covered in black chitin, making him appear to be a monster out of a child’s worst nightmares. But his appearance belied the mind of a general and the charisma of a street gang boss, both of which showed in his rolling, cavernously deep _basso profundo_ voice. It was this voice that issued further orders. 

“I want every free scout to be on constant patrol. Something’s up. Someone’s plotting something, and I’d bet my right arm it doesn’t mean anything good for us.” 

Mentally going through a checklist, the monstrous ghost continued. “How are the settlements we control? Everything secure?”

“No trouble at all, boss,” said another of his loyal lieutenants, a skeletal spectre in a wandering monk’s robes. “We’ve got a few stationed in each of the villages within the Fell. As for the ones outside, I’ve overseen the training of the ones who’ll teach them. We should be fortified well enough.” 

Standing, Achiba smiled faintly. “Good. Let me know as soon as Whisper gets back. I need to confer with him about our little trip to Whitewall.”

“Of course. In the meantime, boss?” asked the skeleton. 

“I’ve got a message to respond to. I’ll catch up after that’s done.” With that, the meeting was adjourned.

Achiba strolled casually through the halls of the fortified compound, as though he owned them. But then, that was because he _did_ own them. The power he wielded was that of a warlord, albeit a clever and practical one. And above all else, his was a code of honor. It was something he had learned in life, as a gladiatorial slave. Back then, honor had been everything he had. It was all a slave could own. Death had utterly failed to take it from him. 

In his private chambers, Achiba turned to the old, cracked mirror propped in the corner. As he approached, it misted over, revealing a message written in dry streaks of red. Reading it over once more, he knelt down and breathed on the mirror. The message vanished, leaving the surface misted completely over. It was time to reply.

==> Observant Advisor: Have Tea 

The room was richly decorated; tapestries and silks beyond what most Realm senators could afford gave the dim room bright splashes of color, and the carpet was the softest the Sidereal had ever felt. The furniture was made of some extremely rare Wyld-wood - it would have appeared to be simple ebony until it caught the light in such a way that it shone with shifting rainbow patterns. Personally, Linsang the Leaf suspected that the only person in the entire Scarlet Empire who had ever lived in more luxury was the Empress herself. But then, that was her position. Sesus Nagezzer, also known as the Slug, had earned this himself. 

This was not to say that the Empress hadn’t earned anything. Far be it from a Vizier loyal to the idea of the Realm to make such an insult to the woman who had ruled it for over three-quarters of a millennium. But what the Empress had earned through conquest and politics, Nagezzer had earned through trade. Most people thought the fat man, favoring a leg made useless by injury and walking with a cane, was nothing more than a merchant of sins. Sex, drugs, gambling - he had more than half of the Realm coming to him, in one way or another. But this was where most people stopped thinking. Only those who really knew the man would know the reasons why, and few members of the public would actually believe it. 

For all of what he was, Linsang the Leaf, Chosen of Secrets, respected the Dynast. He was a true patriot, serving his nation through the best means he could manage. And in this case, he kept the more unsavory appetites of his countrymen slaked, while gathering their every little dirty secret. The Slug knew who held what power in which quarters, and this made him incredibly dangerous to underestimate. 

Because of this, Linsang had never done so. She had approached him as an equal - a master of the shadows and words spoken and unspoken, the same as he. For nearly half a century now, they had been meeting when their busy schedules allowed. He would tell her of the things her other agents could not gather, and she would give him warnings and prophecies. The power of a secret was in the telling, whether it took place or no, and she wielded hers with the deftness of an assassin wielding a vial of poison. All it took was a single drop in just the right place, and even titans could fall. 

On this occasion, she was having tea with the Slug. Nagezzer had graciously invited her to sit and partake of a particularly rare tea, one which had been obtained on an expedition to the Far South. Linsang had only tasted it once before, when holding court with the Efreet Lords. Now, the masterfully-prepared brew warmed her body in its totality, spreading from her tongue and throat out to the tips of her fingers. Spices mingled with the leaves, and it had been steeped perfectly before being poured. There was something else in it as well, a peculiar aftertaste she had no recollection of. An addition by the Slug’s master brewer, no doubt. 

“Most excellent, old friend,” said Linsang as she set down her cup. “I am honored that you would share such a treasure with me.”

“Not at all. Though, in truth, I have held this particular concoction in waiting for some time now. It was, you see, originally intended to be served to the Empress.” Nagezzer’s eyes were downcast, but Linsang could tell that he still felt somewhat lost without her. A country without its ruler was no country at all. 

“Then… surely, you haven’t given up hope of her return?”

“Alas, after five years, what else can I do? With no sign, even to her favored daughter, we can only assume the worst.” 

“Mnemon still campaigns in Jiara, then?”

“Where else? Her movements would be well-known to you and yours, I should think.” 

Linsang smiled faintly. “Of course, that is true. What have you heard from the woman herself?”

The Slug laughed. “Nothing at all! She would not waste her time with petty distractions, not even should I and the whole of House Cynis together offer our best. There is a whisper, however, that her rival grows nervous.”

“I would hardly call Mnemon and the Roseblack rivals so soon.” 

“Then you have not been here to see what I see. There is talk of instability, Linsang. A lack of faith in the regent.”

“Yes. Well.” Linsang cleared her throat awkwardly. “As I’ve said before, the regent was not-”

“I know, I know. It has been kept secret who arranged for the appointment to fall to a man who… experiences divine ecstasy regularly, shall we say? I know of some who would pay dearly to have his copy of the Immaculate Texts, for thought that it would make their own ecstasies more satisfying.”

Clearly put off by this tack, Linsang returned to the subject at hand. “You said there was talk of instability?”

“Yes.” Nagezzer stroked his long, thin beard. “Some have been choosing sides recently. Others… less so, having chosen almost as soon as they received word of the Empress’ disappearance. Many seem to believe it will be a struggle between Mnemon and Tepet Ejava. The former has a storied history, which counts for much, and her blood, which counts for more. The latter… you must have heard the stories.” 

Linsang took another sip of tea. “A legion of layabouts and criminals, turned into one of the most deadly - and most loyal - units the Realm has seen in a long time. Yes, I have heard. And with her fabled grandfather returning from his self-imposed exile soon, the Roseblack will have a decision to make before long.” 

“Indeed.” With a sad shake of his head, Nagezzer drained his cup. “This will be bloody, five years and more in the brewing as it is, and I have little reason to desire such a struggle. Civil war is bad for business, and worse for the hearts and minds of a nation.” The Slug looked up at his longtime friend and advisor. “Truly, you have nothing you can tell me? Nothing that would tell us where she might be and what she might be doing?”

“Even if I did, old friend, I would likely be under direct orders not to say. Chejop Kejak himself has said nothing.” It was worrying, too. If the eldest living Sidereal - no, the eldest living Exalt - had no idea where the Empress was, then who would? And he of all people would know, having orchestrated the fall of the Old Realm and the eventual rise of the new, with a certain woman as its Empress. The two had often worked together, it was said. 

“In that case, I must soldier on,” said Nagezzer, chuckling. “At least as well as I can. Not much marching I can do with this leg.” He rang a small bell, letting it chime but a single time, and called out to the door at the far end of the room for more tea. 

As the brewer entered, teapot cradled delicately in his hands, Linsang took the last gulp of her own cup. “Indeed. And you yourself must feel some of this threat, being where you are.” 

The tea was poured in silence, each cup refilled to the very brim. Both of them picked up the cups delicately, observed closely by the brewer. When they both had a sip of the steaming liquid, he seemed satisfied, and turned to go. 

There was that odd taste again….

Linsang and Nagezzer shared the briefest of glances. Yes. There was no question. 

“Obviously, I am something of a target,” said the fat man, smiling placidly. “I know many things about many people. But only a fool would try to kill me. I am far more valuable to any and all, alive. Hard to get a dead man to share his secrets.” 

“Especially one of your hardy nature,” agreed Linsang. “This tea has such an interesting aftertaste.” 

There was only a momentary hitch in the brewer’s movements as he was leaving, but it was enough that the sharp-eyed Sidereal caught it. 

“Still,” she continued, “I have no complaints. Once again, you honor me.” 

“Think nothing of it. You are a friend, and I treat my friends well.”

“Clearly,” said Linsang with a wry smile. “I seem to recall a colleague or two losing themselves to one of your parties for a few days.” 

Nagezzer smiled. “Ah, yes, that would have been last year, just before Calibration. After the party ended….” 

“Ah, yes. The strange lights in the skies.”

“Indeed. I’ve been meaning to ask….” 

Linsang shook her head. “No, we’re not quite sure what they were yet either. Those strange spiral designs… no one in Yu-Shan that I’ve talked to recognized them.”

“Hmm. That is concerning.” The Slug sipped his tea again. “Ah well. At least they were not unattractive.” 

“I suppose. Though I know more than a few that went to their deaths thinking that beauty couldn’t hurt them.” 

“Surely none you’ve brought down yourself?” The arch of Nagezzer’s eyebrows could have been monuments to dry wit. 

“You flatter me. Endings are not my department.” 

“Still, all things must come to an end, mustn't they?”

“Indeed.” Linsang finished her tea and stood. “I should very much like to thank the brewer for his work as well as you for your hospitality.” 

Nagezzer rang his bell, once more, then painfully stood, leaning heavily on his cane. “I shall allow you to take your leave at your leisure. I have business I must attend to.” He staggered out, never a picture of grace at the best of times. 

Linsang turned to the brewer. “I must give you my thanks. The tea was excellent.” 

“Oh, of course, my lady. I only do my best.” 

“Yes, I could tell. It is, however, a shame that your best was not enough.”

The brewer froze. “I- I beg your pardon?”

“You are no brewer. Or at least, that is not your true profession.” 

With an air of false camaraderie, Linsange approached the man and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re really quite good to have infiltrated Sesus Nagezzer’s personal network. It’s difficult to get within twenty yards of him if you intend to kill him. Or, at least, that’s what I would say. If I had to guess, I would say that he may very well have allowed you this close. After all, that was a very, very amateur move.” 

The would-be assassin stayed frozen, like a hare that had been spotted by a hawk. 

“Poison? In the cup of a Wood Aspect? Did you really expect it to work?” Before the man could respond, Linsang silenced him with a gesture. “Tut tut. That was rhetorical. I’m sure you know what I meant by that. Really, it can’t have been your best idea. Oh, it was good to start, that much is true. I recognized the taste, you see. A flower native to the deep jungles of the East, whose roots and petals can be ground together and mixed with the blood of a songbird to make a rather unique alchemical liquid. It quickens the pulse and speeds the flow of blood in the body. In very small amounts, it’s quite the medicinal treatment, said to restore youth to the elderly. But in larger doses, it tricks the heart into working too hard. If one gets excited, the heart beats faster and faster until it explodes. Exotic and flashy, as poisons go. And nearly undetectable, too! Very little taste or smell. In small doses.

“Perhaps you thought that something so obscure would bypass his resistances? But he is, really, blessed by the Dragons. The Children of Sextes Jylis are immune to any natural poison, and that means this one as well. As for myself….” 

Linsang turned to face the man again. He hadn’t moved a muscle. “I am a Chosen of Fate, you see. You expected me to be dead by now. But I have suspended the power of that poison, denying that it is part of my destiny.” 

A bead of sweat rolled down the man’s face. 

“Aha. I think you see now. But your mind wrestles with itself. Surely it cannot be possible to deny Fate? But you cannot take the risk that it is. I think you know, deep in your heart, that the damage is done.” 

All it had taken was a simple touch. The moment she had imbibed the tea, Linsang had known of the toxin’s presence. He had clumsily overdone it, dosing the drink at least six times over what would have been needed, but even if he hadn’t, she would still have been able to tell. It had been child’s play to use her Essence to hold it back, remove it from her own destiny, and leave it as something to wait on her metaphorical desk, until the time came to deliver it. 

Just a touch, and the destiny of the man had been amended. 

Linsang turned away, smiling to herself. “I’ll see myself out. No need to strain yourself. In fact, if I were you, I’d avoid whatever stress you can. The amount you put in would have been enough to kill a bull and three more besides.” She paused, savoring the moment. “My, how the imagination races… don’t let it worry you overmuch.” 

Linsang left, quietly, and shut the door with perhaps a little more force than was strictly necessary.

==> Nemissary: Report 

Aboard the undead fortress Juggernaut, a lone nemissary waited in the highest chamber. The room swayed gently with the titanic beast's labored breathing, but it was something that all aboard had gotten used to – much like the stench of rotting flesh and the occasional visit by the enormous maggots burrowing through the creature to expand the rooms inside. The ghost cleared its throat as subtly as it could – a habit left over from life – as the towering, armored figure it was meant to address looked out over the bleak cityscape below.

“Tell me,” said the Mask of Winters, still gazing out the window, “when you look out at Thorns, Tridius, what do you see?”

The nemissary, who was indeed called Tridius when not disguising itself as another, thought for a moment. Buildings in various states of repair or decay formed the geography of the conquered city. The farthest district, to the west, fairly sparkled in comparison to the rest of the city. Dim moonlight reflected off the water along the western bay, giving the richest (and most “righteous”) of the dead citizens, as well as diplomatic guests, a view of what gave the city its lifeblood. The phrase, of course, was a delicious irony, given that the living had been relegated to second class ever since the Deathlord had marched his armies on the city, backed by Juggernaut and given a terrifyingly effective vanguard in the Deathknights – his Abyssal Exalted. Now the city and all its splendor, even its government, was set firmly under the Mask's booted heel. Not even the vibrant amphitheatre that had been a centerpiece for the city had survived intact – the Deathlord had razed and re-constructed it, drawing out the blueprints and directing the work himself. Everything had gone impeccably well, a testament to the brilliance of he who had spearheaded the campaign five years ago.

“I see your city, my lord,” said Tridius, deciding that a plain answer was safest.

“What else?”

“Er... would you like me to speak literally or metaphorically, sire?”

Mask of Winters merely gestured dismissively.

“In that case, my liege, when speaking literally I see a city that you have conquered and ruled for five years now. I see the dead ruling over the living, and you ruling over the dead. I see a training ground for your deathknights and a a city that is, in its entirety, yours – from the paving stones to the thoughts of its denizens. Speaking metaphorically, I see a symbol of your superiority and a victory. Yours was the first blow among your peers against Creation, or at least, my master, the first that created a true beachhead. None of the others can claim to have achieved so much.”

“Do you know what I see?”

“My lord?”

“I see nothing more than a _start._ ” Still not turning, the Deathlord gave his orders. “Your reports, Tridius.”

“Of course. To begin, your deathknights have departed for their assigned tasks, as you commanded. Silent Executioner has already reached her initial destination, and expects to be in the jungles within a few days. Falling Tears Poet has secured transport southwards through the Underworld, and plans to enter Creation proper before he reaches the Lion's territory. Disciple is already in Nexus, although he reports potential complications. He left very little in the way of details; he only said that he was investigating further.” The nemissary paused, thinking. “Ah, yes. Maiden of the Mirthless Smile is in the process of securing a ship. Might I add, sire, that your assignment is a particularly excellent way to remind her of her place?” The Abyssal in question would brutally murder anyone who knew, and had in fact done so in the past, but she easily fell prey to violent seasickness. “Curse and Scripture believe they can reach the Fell in five days. Unfortunately, my master, we still have no word from our agent in Rakshastan.”

There was a pause, like the moment between the penultimate breath and the death rattle.

“And the Lady in Darkness and Typhon?”

“Er... still at each other's throats, my liege. When they are not occupied with the affairs of the city.”

“Good.” If he still needed to draw breath, Tridius would have sighed in relief.

“And the Seven-Degreed Physician's project?”

Silence hung in the air like a guillotine.

“I see,” said Mask of Winters.

“It is not as dire as my silence implied, sire!” The nemissary was scrambling for any way he could find out of being smelted into soulsteel, combing through the details of the report the necrosurgeon and technician had given him. “Before his, er, assistant escaped, the machine had indeed begun to create a connection. Unfortunately, said assistant did inflict quite a bit of damage before escaping. The Physician killed them, believing them to be past the point of being worth the trouble. But he did mention that there was, for a brief moment, an open gateway.”

“Good,” said the Deathlord, gesturing for silence. “He is to return to work immediately. I will not have that prize denied to me.”

“As you command, my lord.” The nemissary hesitated.

“You have questions, Tridius?”

“Ah... only the one, my liege.”

“Speak your mind.”

“Far be it from me to question your decisions, my lord, but... why this particular project? I understand you place great importance upon it, but I'm not sure I understand what you intend to accomplish. If I am to better serve your wishes, then surely....” Tridius trailed off, thinking he had overstepped his bounds.

Mask of Winters paused, letting his servant stew in his own worry. Finally, he asked, “Do you know, Tridius, how old I am?”

“Not in exact number of years, my master, but-”

“I remember the First Age,” Mask of Winters said, voice heavy with the weight of memory. “I remember the Time of Glory, when we as Solar God-Kings ruled all of Creation. There was a time when the Great Maker shared his works with us. But then he fled. Perhaps the world turned on him. Perhaps he merely thought the time had come for him to leave. Or perhaps our traitorous viziers drove him away with deceit and terror.” Mail shifted as the Deathlord clenched his fist. “Regardless, I remember the wonders we lost on that day, and how our power waned from that moment on. I remember the betrayal of our advisors, and I have often wondered if such a thing would have happened if the Maker had not left us. But now that I rule the dead, I intend for those works to serve me again.”

Tridius had nothing to say. The ghost was overwhelmed with awe and fear – his lord spoke with such conviction that it was impossible not to be.

“That will be all, Tridius.” As his servant left, the Mask of Winters looked out over Thorns. Soon, he would have the city ready, as he envisioned it. And then... the world would know his glory again.

It would be the perfect time to take his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in order, a brief summary: Sidereals have shitty working conditions, there are ghost warlords that are all that's left of an ancient gladiator race, Siderelas create shitty working conditions for assassins, and there are ghosts that want revenge on all of Creation.
> 
> We good? Good. 
> 
> I think my favorite section in this chapter is Linsang's. Siddies are capable of such wonderful bullshit, and in this case it's thanks to Someone Else's Destiny. The applications are endlessly useful and endlessly entertaining! Chug all night, then poke some random asshole on the street and make him suffer the hangover! Poison assassins! Slap people with hallucinogenics!*
> 
> *Disclaimer: one or any of the above uses may or may not get you audited by the Celestial Bureau.


	15. Power Suffusing Form Technique

Once, there was a maiden who could not win  
She warred with her ancestors  
Thinking their mercies condescension  
And spoke bitter words written in bitter ink  
Her anger drove her to look in the shadows  
Reading books scribed in fear  
The shadows entered her  
Stealing away her tongue  
When she looked upon her ancestors again  
She realized what she had lost  
“Family is absence,” she said

==> John: Fail to adjust 

The past five days had not been particularly pleasant for John. This was not to say that they had been terrible, or even bad to any extent, but they had not been comfortable.

Yes, the apartment he and Roxy had been given was nicely furnished and warm. Yes, they were due their first round of pay in a day, and it would only add to their collective coffers after the discreet reward in silver coinage he had been given following the stunt at the gates. Yes, they had been eating well: dried spiced meats and hearty bread, supplemented with milk and cheese and something made out of yogurt left to ferment in bags next to the doors of every house. The first time they had seen Tor give one a healthy smack before entering the home they had been confused. Apparently it was to keep the liquid inside well-mixed.

And yes, the beds were good, and the baths hot. The bathhouses were a wonder, a glorious relief after a patrol. But that was the thing – the patrols were long, and in the dead of night. John couldn't leave during the day. He and Roxy – well, the whole unit, really – had been sworn to silence by Rune. The moment John had walked back in the gates the red-haired man had swooped down and nearly snatched him off the street. He hadn't been allowed to ask any questions, he hadn't been allowed to stop for breath, and he hadn't been allowed to do anything but listen and nod while Rune hissed at him in a conspiratorial whisper.

“This has to stay secret for now,” he said. “I don't know exactly what happened, and you're going to fix that the moment we have some privacy, but whatever it was will have some very serious repercussions.”

“Re-”

“Don't ask me, I don't know what they'll be. But they'll be _big_ , trust me.”

And then he had disappeared, apparently to be locked in a tumultuous debate with the Syndics. John had no idea why this was such a problem, but he suspected that there could be serious trouble on the horizon. After all, Rune was also supposed to be Chosen by the Unconquered Sun, right? If this was supposed to be a rare occurrence, such that nobody knew what exactly it meant, then maybe… maybe Chosen weren’t supposed to be in the same place. If this world was half as big as his own, then John reasoned that it was like comic books - each superhero had to have a city for themselves. If there were too many in one place, it would just cause more problems. 

He was still pondering this as he looked out the window of the small, but comfortable, apartment. He shifted his weight and cracked his knuckles out of agitation. The sound bounced off the walls, the joints popping perfectly. None of that weak half-pop bullshit that happened when it was a habit. 

Even cracking his knuckles had become smooth and flawless. John glared down at his fingers as though they were responsible for his unrest, which was totally unfair to the faithful digits, and he knew it. He could hardly complain about how, over the last few days, he had felt like he was in the best physical health he’d ever been. His limbs moved with ease and grace, his grip was firmer, and his eyesight seemed sharper, though he still needed his glasses. Even his breathing, which had occasionally been troubled by sinus problems and hay fever, was steady and even, each gasp of air feeling like a deep breath in a noonday meadow. It was as though whatever minor inconveniences had been in his way had vanished, leaving the temple that was his body as pristine as a chapel. Frankly, he wondered if he even snored anymore. But for all the marvelous health he now had, it still wasn’t quite enough. He felt imprisoned, and ignorant, and isolated. 

Answers. He needed answers. But how…?

John’s focus on his problem was so intense that he jumped when he heard the knock at the bedroom door. 

“Hey, John? You in there?” Roxy’s voice was gentle, but firm. She knew how he’d been feeling. 

“Yeah, yeah, come on in.”

As she pushed the door aside, Roxy smiled at him. “Just about to go on my afternoon patrol with Velka. I, um… I wanted to make sure you’d be okay. You know. Until I got back.”

John turned, the tension slipping out of his shoulders. “I appreciate it. Thanks.” He paused. “You’re going with Velka today?”

“Yeah, why?”

His face lit up. “Perfect! I need to talk to her! After you’re done, okay?” 

“Um… well, I’ll try. For all we know she might have a hot date or something.” 

“It doesn’t matter. This is important. Roxy, I don’t know what’s been going on. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. Rune won’t talk to me and you’re the only one I actually see off-duty. I have to know more about what happened after I jumped off the wall.”

Roxy hesitated. She’d been told not to interfere, but…. 

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell her. If there’s time.” 

The gratitude on John’s face could have moved a statue. “Thank you. I don’t… thank you.” 

“No problem, John. Um. Just don’t mention it to Rune, okay?” At his nod, she slipped out the door. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

==> Tlatecuhtli: Meet your contact 

“Room for a drinking partner?”

Tlatecuhtli looked up. He smiled. 

“For you, lady, there’s always room. How are you, Rashan?”

The woman took her seat across the table, signaling the proprietor of the teahouse for an order. 

“Just got back from a trip to Gem. Ran into a few interesting people.”

“Define interesting.” 

“Dune people.”

The anklok let out a low whistle. “Everyone make it out okay?”

“We lost a few to the sneaky little bastards. They’re getting worse. These raiders had something new - disgusting cloaks I’ve never seen before. I’ve got someone looking into it.” 

“And not me? I’m insulted,” said Tlatecuhtli wryly. 

“Hah! That’s because I have something special in mind for you, you big baby.” 

The tea arrived. It was a warm, spiced blend with flavors ranging from the neighborly sands of the South to the Eastern jungles and even a bit beyond, to the edges of Halta in the northeast - a specialty native to Chiaroscuro and its cosmopolitan trade markets.

“Never understood why you like that stuff,” muttered the Dragon King, who preferred a stronger kick to his drink. 

Rashan merely took a sip, savoring the aroma with the palate of a successful merchant. “Do you want to hear about the rest of my trip, or would you rather keep insulting my tastes?”

“As much as I would enjoy continuing to keep poking fun at you, I get the feeling the other option’s more interesting in the long run. What’s this about something special?”

Rashan leaned forward conspiratorially. “Those cannibals almost ambushed us. Things would have gone a lot worse if it hadn’t been for these two kids.” 

If Tlatecuhtli had possessed eyebrows, he would have raised one. “Kids?”

“Not sure how old they are, but they look young, at least. One’s human, and the other looked like the Brides of Ahlat started recruiting from the Wyld.”

“Lady, I’m a centuries-old walking pile of armor and muscle with a dusty hat. Remember that ‘special’ is really relative when it comes to me.”

“Oh, I know.” She leaned back, concealing a smug grin behind the rim of the teacup. “It’s just that one of them reminded me of something you mentioned to me once.” 

“Go on….”

“Something about gold? Icons on foreheads?”

Anyone who witnessed the speed and grace with which the burly Anklok moved would have thought their brain lied to them. He had been sitting, relaxed, and now he was standing at his full, towering height, claws on the table, leaning over the woman, and the table settings hadn’t moved an inch. 

“You’re telling me,” he said in as low a rumble as he could manage, “that you actually found one?” 

Rashan shrugged. “When he fought, there was a lot of extra sunlight and fleeing Dune People. You tell me.” 

Tlatecuhtli leaned farther forward. “Where are they?” The expression on his face could have been mistaken for pleading, possibly even begging. 

“Take it easy, big guy. They’re with my caravan, on the outskirts of the city. Didn’t want to draw too much attention.” 

There was a moment as the huge, armored figure stood stock-still, as though totally unable to comprehend what he’d been told. Gradually, he slumped back into his seat. 

“All this time… after all that hunting. It’s… it’s pretty hard to believe.” Tlatecuhtli licked his scaly lips. After spending centuries in stasis, a crystalline hibernation that was the last hope for saving his race, and losing all track of how the world had been, he had finally found one of the points of his personal compass again. 

Once, he had been teacher and master to the sunlit heroes of the Primordial War and the Time of Glory that came after. He had led them in martial prayers, katas that formed both deadly techniques and tributes to the Unconquered Sun. Then his race, the Dragon Kings, had begun to do the impossible - they were dying out. Their souls, normally kept strong throughout the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, began to lose their might and entire tribes began to lose their intellect. They became beasts, savage and unthinking. A plague had begun to kill them, accelerating the loss. The sunlit heroes vanished, and their former allies began to hunt down anything that had been touched by the once-rulers of Creation. In a desperate gamble, some of the Dragon Kings chose to enter stasis in the hope that the heroes would return and reawaken them. 

His surprise to find no heroes beckoning him back, but mere tomb-robbers stumbling across his crystal sarcophagus, had given way to rage and bitter disappointment. It was only through the valor shown by the would-be looters, defending one another with what little skill and equipment they had, that he had understood that not all was lost. And so he had learned, and for two long decades, closing to three, he had slowly become accustomed to the new face of Creation. 

Once, he had been teacher and master. Now, he was a treasure hunter, chasing rumors and relics. One story after another had turned into dead ends, if they had not been red herrings in the first place. Far too many times he had chased a tavern tale or cold whisper, only to find that the source was either nonexistent or slain at the hands of the Empire. But here, now, the search had paid off. 

Voice shaking, he asked, “How soon can you get me there?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

==> Dave and Tavros: Meet a Prince and a Priest 

The outskirts of the city were like an eternal bazaar. Caravans and merchants flowed like inner-city traffic, stopping for fruits or hot food or cold drinks by the roadside, or to set up a tented stall to sell their own wares. Dangerous-looking riders in desert robes, some with conspicuous splashes of grey somewhere on their clothing, occasionally passed by. They observed the environs with the air of lords of their domain. Many of them bore glittering duelling blades on their hips. 

“You think the grey means something?” Dave asked, leaning back against the wagon. 

“Probably,” replied Tavros. “I mean, I think it does. Kind of like wearing your blood color on Alternia maybe. Why’d they wear it otherwise?” He sat on the rear deck of the wagon, leaning back and sunning himself a bit.

Dave shrugged. He’d noticed over the past few days that the troll, normally a stuttering nervous wreck, was less hesitant, less seemingly afraid. Even his posture was more relaxed - walking, talking, anything else, he didn’t make himself smaller like he had used to. He moved like he actually belonged where he stood, rather than being a guest renting the space. Whatever that new Incredible Vanishing Forehead Sparkle Mark had done, it had certainly made him less timid. 

It had vanished not long after the attackers had. It had only lit up once after that, when the caravan had pushed too far and lost the road at night. Tavros had taken point, his forehead had lit up, and the sands had been illuminated like he’d turned on the high beams. 

It was, in some ways, a relief. Someone else could take center stage now. It was hard to deny that whatever had been done to Tavros had made him more… heroic. On the other hand, neither of them actually knew what that “whatever” was. Dave briefly entertained the possibilities: Tavros awakening his inner strength as some kind of Super Saiyan was one. Perhaps trolls were actually supercharged by a sun whose light didn’t roast them alive. Or maybe he’d been possessed by something. Of the three, Dave wasn’t sure which he liked least. 

He settled for answering the question Tavros had posed. “Could be that it’s a badge of honor or something.” 

“The grey? It marks them as Dereth,” said a voice behind them.

The duo turned, seeing a lean, masculine figure in the travel-dusted robes of a desert wanderer. His face was sharp and graceful, and the sword on his hip glittered crimson, like stained glass, in the high sun. His scarf, fluttering in the sandy breeze, was the same shade of grey as the mysterious individuals wore.

Dave, quicker on the uptake than his troll compatriot, asked, “I suppose you’re one as well?”

The man smiled knowingly. “You suppose correctly. You may address me as Prince Diamond, far rider of the Delzahn. It would ill suit me to allow strangers with no knowledge of my people to make a fatal mistake, so remember this: address them as they wish to be addressed. The Delzahn are a people of honor, and the Dereth must earn their status to live the lives they wish. Disrespect will be met with a duel.” 

“Ah… yeah, sure. Noted, and all that.” Dave felt his cool demeanor slipping, as though this Prince Diamond could see through it. Through _him_. The man stood with a stance familiar to Dave - the easy, relaxed posture of a practiced fighter. He knew better than to trust that stance. The Dereth man was clearly capable of using the red sword he wore. A chill ran through the teen as his imagination ran wild speculating why, exactly, that curved blade might be so red. 

“Do take care. I apologize for interrupting, and for leaving so abruptly, but business calls me elsewhere.” With a smooth, quick bow, Diamond turned and left, disappearing into the bustle of the marketplace. 

Out of sight, the Delzahn smiled to himself. So that was what Shen’s divinations had meant by “men and women of grey who would be Mnemon’s bane.” The rest of the group, himself included, had thought that it had meant the Dereth, and so he had been sent to return to his homeland to investigate. But this was something else entirely. True, there had only been the one, but it was unlikely that he was unique - he looked too young to truly be considered a man just yet, by most standards, but where there were young men, older men must have been. Perfect Soul would want to know. It was time to begin the long ride back to Jiara.

Back at the wagon, Dave and Tavros shared a look of puzzlement. The brief encounter now seemed almost like a dream. 

“That guy…” Tavros started.

“Bad feeling?”

“Yes. And no. Like he knew more than he should about us, but, um… also like I kind of knew him? I don’t know.”

If Dave hadn’t gotten into the stone-solid habit of keeping his face totally impassive, he would have frowned. That was suspicious, even more suspicious than a sudden conversation with a total stranger. 

His suspicion didn’t have time to linger, as he noticed Rashan approaching the cart, guest in tow. And what a guest! The crowds parted long before the towering personage got close to them. It was like watching a bipedal ankylosaur in a wide-brimmed hat accompany their erstwhile employer, which, upon closer inspection, seemed to be the case. Tavros’ jaw dropped. Dave’s would have done the same if he hadn’t caught himself. 

The walking dinosaur sized them up effortlessly as Rashan began her introductions. “Boys, this is an old friend of mine. If you want answers, he’s the Dragon King for you. Now,” she added with a hint of smugness, “be good and introduce yourselves.”

“Uh… Tavros. Tavros Nitram.” The troll slid off his perch and extended his hand, gazing up in awe. 

“Dave Strider.” 

The hulk shook both their hands with a claw. Dave had to resist the urge to flinch away as the scales completely enveloped his hand. “Call me Tlatecuhtli,” said the Dragon King. His voice rumbled and curled in the air like cigar smoke, the overall effect of which made him seem like a volcano given a less sedentary form. . 

Dave’s inner smartass wanted to make a remark, but the rest of Dave pummeled it into silence. Before it had a chance to retaliate, a commotion down the street drew his attention. 

Crates broke under the force of three men scuffling over them. Angry shouts and insults, most of which only needed the tone to be understood, were punctuated by cries of pain and the thudding sound of blows being landed. Dave’s sharp eyes caught flashes of grey amidst the flurry, as well as large wooden beads, a few pairs of undyed robes, and a conical straw hat. 

Tlatecuhtli spat a curse under his breath, in some craggy language that sounded ancient. “Immaculates. Probably picked a fight with a Dereth over their cultural dogma.” Seemingly to himself, he muttered, “learn to address the lady as such when she introduces herself as such. It’s not hard.” 

The fight began to edge closer, gathering fighters - or at least bystanders attempting to escape the snowball of violence - as it went. It picked up speed, suddenly jerking towards the caravan as one of the more important members of the brawl was ejected and promptly pounced upon. Immediately, Dave and Tavros reflexively summoned their weapons, drawing them from thin air. 

As Tlatecuhtli took up his usual stance for ending fights, he glanced over at Rashan. “I don’t remember you saying anything about having _two_ Exalts for me.” 

== > Rose: Study 

The ship did not, in fact, arrive the next day as promised. Anticipation had given way to nervous tension and grinding worry. Admittedly, the past four days had been spent in a tropical paradise. True, they had been frantic, filled with last-second planning, as the ship was due to arrive at any moment, and scrambling for knowledge, to be ready when it did make landfall. At least thirty percent of the time, Rose estimated, had been spent reminding their hosts of Feferi’s presence and rank - that she was, in fact, who she said she was. It was as though her face faded from their minds, which was suspicious given the islanders’ previous treatment of the heiress. And on a personal level of irritation, Rose herself found that she repeatedly had to remind herself of the troll’s face whenever she wasn’t in the room, like the features were constantly being washed away in the tides of memory.

Rose shook her head and returned to her work. She had been taking written study of both the language of their hosts, and the formal tongue of the empire, with mixed success. About all she could do in either was introduce herself and spit a couple of illustrative curses. Perhaps she should have chosen to focus on one until she was competent, but desperation and pride never mixed well. Tariq had been helpful, when he could spare the time, but he had duties of his own. 

Today, however, would be a change. It had to be, after all this waiting. Today-

“Rose.”

She looked up. “Kanaya.” 

The troll leaned over the desk, pushing papers aside to get closer to her matespirt. “Making progress?”

Rose smiled. “Only as much as a new curse word in Seatongue.” 

“So no developments in the realm of something sexy to say in a foreign language?” Kanaya asked with a chuckle. 

“Only if you like being called a crab-mother.” She stood, slipping her arms around the troll’s waist. 

Her partner gave this due consideration. “I think that would be inappropriate, since neither of us have given birth.”

“Well, if you say so.” Rose gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll just have to research something else then.” 

“Take your time. I would think you would prioritize other, more useful tidbits.” 

“I’ll always make extra time for you.” 

The two shared a brief kiss. 

“How are you holding up?” asked Kanaya, brushing a lock of hair out of Rose’s face.

“I’m… okay. Very homesick, but that’s natural in this situation.” She smiled faintly. “I would be lying if I said your presence didn’t help. I do miss having a computer, however.”

“You and all of us.” Silence descended like a vulture. “We… we will find them again.” 

“I know.” 

The silence rustled its wings, making way for the beast of heartache to stalk past. 

“Kanaya?”

“Hm?”

“Just promise to keep me away from anything alcoholic.” 

The troll chuckled. “Of course.”

Rose blinked. “You, er, can’t have come and interrupted me just to check on me.” 

Kanaya dramatically clutched at her chest. “Oh, you wound me! But in this case, you are, actually, correct. Feferi asked me to get you. The ship’s been spotted.” 

At last! Quickly snatching her most important notes from the desk and cramming them into a woven satchel, Rose rushed out to the shore, following her partner. 

Feferi, Eridan, and Jake met them on the shore south of Solid Shell. Even now, the dark shape of the ship, a chiaroscuro against the brilliance of the sky and ocean, was drawing tantalizingly closer. 

“Bloody big, isn’t she?” Jake shaded his eyes. 

“Has to be,” said Eridan, his gaze locked on it. “Oceans will break anythin’ that’s not strong enough to survive. A ship has to be able to withstand sudden storms and changes in the tides. And that’s on top of whatever might be swimmin’ around.” He paused, frowning. “If this place’s oceans are anythin’ like Alternia’s, there’s some seriously nasty shit hidin’ out there.”

Straining to see, Rose wondered aloud, “She doesn’t seem to have sustained any damage, at least as far as I can tell. What else could have caused the delay?”

“Hard to tell at this distance,” Eridan sniffed. “Storm could have blown her off course, or forced them to change plans. She’s ridin’ too high to have hull damage and the masts look straight enough to me, so I doubt they got in a fight.” He shrugged, which was easier to see now that he’d abandoned his cape in the tropical sun. “Could also have just gotten stuck in port. Some asshole with a clipboard actin’ higher and mightier than he had a right to.” 

Having accepted all of these as possibilities, the group patiently waited for the ship to weigh anchor, surrounded by a gathering crowd of Okeanos natives. No one spoke, not as a dinghy was lowered into the water, not as it crawled over the surf to the shore. The waves of people, anxiously awaiting the passengers, silently parted, as the dinghy came ashore. Bua-shing stepped forward to greet the strangers, who were evidently led by a tall, be-coated woman. Words were exchanged. Gestures followed. The woman turned to look at the five, then turned back. More words and gestures preceded her approach of the group. 

Rose watched the woman, who she assumed to be the captain, with as analytical an eye as her limited knowledge could give her. She moved much like her ship, cutting across the ground as though parting waves. Her coat, boots, and breeches were all salt-worn and battered, but she wore them with the self-assurance of a rock spire. A heavy boarding pike was slung across her back, the jagged, leaf-blade head glinting… was that black, in the sunlight? But what captured the attention of all the onlookers was the hat - peaked and magnificent, with a crimson plume arching back over her shoulder, the hat of a true sailor. It alone looked like it could command a ship. 

The captain was not a particularly tall woman, but her stance made her tower over the group as she tucked her hands behind her back and inspected them. When she spoke, her voice was strong and steady, one used to command. 

“Well, I’ve seen demon pirates and raiding Fair Folk, but none of you look quite like anything I’ve dealt with before.” She eyed the robes Rose wore. “Where’d you get those? Some offshoot of the Immaculates?”

Rose tried to come up with a decent response, cleared her throat to buy time, and, failing to find adequate words, pushed on anyway. “Er, no. They were a… a gift.” 

The captain grunted, seemingly satisfied. She turned her attention to Jake and paused. “Well,” she said, looking him completely over, “I hope you sail better than you dress for it.” 

The young man was either too polite to acknowledge the insult, or didn’t realize it had been given. He instead tipped the captain a wink, saying, “well, jolly hard to prepare for anything when you’re suddenly put right in the middle of it. Still, got to do the best you can with what you have, eh?”

A slight lift of the corner of her mouth seemed to indicate the captain’s approval. “And you,” she said, looking at Feferi. “I’d recognize the heiress look anywhere. On the run from your parents? Or running back to them?”

“I’m not running,” she replied simply. “No one to run from. Or to.” 

The captain muttered something in Low Realm, the commoners’ version of the Imperial language. Rose only caught the vaguest of meanings from it, but it seemed that the captain understood Feferi’s meaning. Her gaze passed to Kanaya, fixed on her long skirt for a moment, and skipped over, as she tutted disapprovingly. 

Rose had to grab her matesprit’s hand to keep her from reaching for her lipstick. 

Now the captain turned to Eridan, who had been watching the ship. Seeing her attention on him, he turned smartly and whipped off a naval salute. 

The captain laughed. Eridan’s face fell. 

“Experienced sailor, are we?” she said with a wry smile. 

Eridan set his teeth and maintained the salute. “Some experience, Captain,” he said, as levelly as he could. “Nothin’ quite the size of your ship there, usually only one mast and no oar-ports. Commanded a two-mast sloop on ni- er, daylight raids.” The troll congratulated himself on remembering to change his terminology for somewhere that didn’t require nocturnal activity. “Small crew, too. Hopin’ I can be of service aboardship.” 

The captain held his gaze for a moment before returning the salute. “Daylight raids, huh? Hit and run tactics.” 

“Aye, Captain.” Eridan dropped his arm. “Pleased to report almost all actions were successful. Those that weren’t were ones I called off before we were in cannon range.” 

She gave this a pleased hum. “Impressive for someone as young as you. Most people your age are too hot-headed to let themselves put caution first.” 

“Well, to be perfectly honest, Captain, I couldn’t stand the thought of losin’.” 

The captain smiled at this. “Well now. You might be useful after all.” As Eridan choked, she turned to the rest of the group. “Alright,” she said. “Here are your rules. You’re here to assist me and my crew on a trip to Skullstone. While you’re on my ship, you’re under my command. You will address me as ‘Captain’ or ‘Captain Lor’ if you want to actually use my name. ‘Cap’n’ will do in rough seas. Once we’re aboard, you’re going to tell me everything about what it is you can do and I expect you to work for your rations and bunk. Am I clear?” 

All five chorused, “aye, Captain.” 

Lor smiled. “Good, you learn fast.” 

The ship, which was called the _Red-Sea Osprey_ , was huge, bearing three masts and a full crew. Rose looked back as the dinghy was hauled in, to see the Chieftain and his wives all waving their goodbyes. Her sharp eyes picked out several gestures, all of which she had learned were meant to be offerings of good luck - the Okeanos equivalents to the thumbs-up. 

The Seer of Light hoped they wouldn’t need it. 

==> Jade: Shift 

“Breathe in. You body knows what shape it’s supposed to be, so don’t bother visualizing a change.” Burning Sky’s voice was even, calm, scholarly. “Look into your self instead. You’ve been Chosen because Luna saw something wild and worthy in you. Her gift drew it out, made it a part of your physical being.” 

Even as the sun stayed high over their forest clearing, Jade looked down at her shadow. You needed to look very hard and very carefully to see it, but there was a hole in it. A piece of space had been carved out of it, leaving the spiral tendrils of the symbol on her dress. This mark, this “Tell” as Burning Sky had called it, was a representation of this gift. Nepeta had jumped, actually jumped, for joy upon finding her own Tell: a long, winding tail, covered in olive fur. Now, her excitement had been tempered by days of travel and trying to learn this first lesson. 

“As Luna’s Chosen, this is the foremost of our skills. Our forms and gifts are protean, fluid, ever-changing and infinitely adaptable to the challenges we will face. Now, as you look inside, find the wildness.” 

Jade closed her eyes, sitting cross-legged in the shade of the grove. Nepeta did the same, seated across from her, as Burning Sky paced around them. Wildness? She wasn’t sure where to find it. Jade had rarely felt wild, even when traipsing through the jungle. The closest had been....

… yes, it had been that moment, hadn’t it? When she had been Chosen. Nothing else had stirred that kind of fire in her heart, had made her feel so free, as when Luna had ignited her soul in silver. Even the hours-long sessions in a lab, reworking strange devices with instinctive knowledge- 

Something roiled deep in her. Instinct. 

“Now, let it go. Let it become your form. Let it be you.” 

The instinct barked and rolled, trying to break free. For a moment, Jade clamped down on it, forcing it back with her fear. Then she remembered the ease and confidence Luna’s kiss had left her with. 

Yes. She could do this. 

“Let it go.” 

For a brief moment, Jade felt everything come undone. Her body unwove, flowed in a tide of adrenaline and quicksilver, sought out a form appropriate to her grandeur and power as a Chosen. The wildness told it what to do. 

Jade shook herself, and felt fur and hackles shake with her. She opened her eyes, and was startled to see that the meaning of “color” had changed. So, for that matter, had the meaning of “see.” The world as she had seen - perceived - it before was scrambled, like a television broadcast sheared through with static. Scent and sight blended together. The grove had gone from a simple gap in the trees to a nexus of trails and sensations. The whirlpool that was this new way to perceive the world would have overwhelmed a mere mortal, perhaps even a God Tier player of Sburb… but to a Chosen, this was only a change in perspective. 

“Well done,” said Burning Sky. He lay easily at the edge of the clearing, having exchanged his human appearance for that of a cougar, its paws and a mask around its eyes stained bloody, burning crimson. Nepeta, across from her, had become a white and faintly olive… well, it wasn’t a cat, not by any human definition. It was the ur-cat, the primeval embodiment of feline. Power was packed into every possible inch of its frame, and Nepeta wore the shape like her favorite coat. Already she was stalking around the clearing, scenting the air and digging her claws into the earth with each step. 

Now that she could see with her nose, Jade could detect a milieu of emotions and experiences in a cloud around her troll friend. The stinging nettle-sharp tinge of stress and worry hung over her like a storm cloud, mingling with what Jade could only assume to be her natural scent - dark, rich, and almost sanguine. Sunrise tones of joy and excitement were beginning to crest the hill of the other scents, as Nepeta moved and discovered what her success meant. It was a heady, intoxicating cocktail, and Jade was forced to shake herself to look away. 

Their mentor, where Nepeta had been sharp points and swirling emotions, was smooth and easy on her olfactory vision. But while he smelled of power realized and easy grace, even mercury and silver, the unmistakable stink of blood lurked underneath it all. He watched them both with eyes that twinkled, but the pall of death told another story. 

Before Jade could look much more closely, Burning Sky began to stand and vanished in a whirlwind of flesh and silver, reappearing as his familiar human self. “Well, I can see your first foray into shapeshifting is going quite well, ladies,” he said. Then he smirked. “I’ll give you five minutes to figure out how to move in those forms. After that, you’ll have to keep up with me.”

Jade and Nepeta looked at each other. If he meant what they thought he meant….

His smirk growing, Burning Sky turned. “On second thought, you seem to be picking up rather quickly… don’t fall too far behind!” 

Already he was off among the trees. The two blinked, then, snarling, bolted off after him. 

Hours later, they caught up with him. Never in the history of the world had a cougar looked more smug, lying across a broad rock and stretching. 

“Well,” it said, “you weren’t as tremendously slow as I expected you to be. In time you’ll probably be passable.”

“You know,” muttered Nepeta, “I think I’m going to kill him.” 

“You can certainly try,” said Burning Sky. 

A moment passed as Nepeta’s brain tried to process two things at once. The first is that he had heard her, despite being more than fifty feet away. The second was that she had actually spoken through a mouth not designed for a language more complicated than yowling. A third thought muscled its way in and pointed out that he had done so as well. Earlier, even.

There was a brief twitch at the edge of her eye, and then she collapsed. Her form twisted and reshaped itself into her original self, howling something that sounded halfway between laughter and sobbing. Jade moved for her, and felt her own body shift back to something more familiar as she did so. 

Jade knelt next to Nepeta, gingerly reaching out to her companion. The troll shook, shoulders heaving, her arms rigid as splints to hold her up. 

“Nepeta?” 

The only reply was more choked sob-laughing. Burning Sky rose from his perch, sharp eyes focused on the two of them. 

“Nepeta, come on, talk to me.” Jade’s voice coaxed her into looking up, however briefly, and she could see olive-stained tears clouding the troll’s eyes. “Easy,” she said. “I’m here, okay?” Jade raised a hand, making sure Nepeta could see it clearly. As she reached out, she spoke as gently as she could. “It’s okay. I don’t know what’s going on, but-”

As her hand settled on Nepeta’s shoulder, the reaction was immediate. The troll moved like lightning, wrapping her arms around Jade and burying her face against her chest. Jade could feel her dress bunching up in the back as Nepeta clung to it like a dying woman. Muffled sobs buzzed through the material, punctuated by shaky gasps for air. 

Nepeta felt like the sky was closing in. Her bloodpusher pounded like it was about to explode, and she couldn’t breathe properly. Jade had become an anchor to reality, to life, to staying conscious and sane and _where was Equius what was she doing here how was this not some horrible dying nightmare any moment now she was going to wake up and it was going to be back on the meteor or the floating ruins of Derse or a cliff she’d fallen off of and she was going to die alone again this couldn’t be real if it was she would die without her moirail no no she was dying already this was the last_

Jade did the only thing she could think to do, and hugged Nepeta as tight as she could. 

Burning Sky kept a respectful distance, but nodded his approval. He would have to wrap it all up in a story tonight, at the campfire, but this was good. A Lunar Exalt needed others. The Pact was a family, for better or worse, and having nothing else was certainly the latter. Slowly, he approached his students and lay beside them. They were his to protect. 

==> Jake: Make a friend 

Aboard the ship, Captain Lor called each of them, one at a time, into her cabin for an interview. The others waited outside. Rose was called in first. While they waited, Feferi looked questioningly at her former moirail. 

“What’s all that about the daylight raids?” she asked. 

Eridan shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh, may have padded that a little.” 

“So you didn’t back off because you couldn’t stand the thought of losing?”

“What? No, no, that part was true. I just didn’t mention….”

“... all the times Vriska was involved.” 

“They don’t count!” he hissed. “Fuckin’ bullshit mind-control powers.” At Feferi’s capital-L Look, he pulled away. “What? Like nobody ever kept their bad points off their work history.” 

She conceded the point with a roll of her eyes. “Fair enough,” she said, and looked up to notice Kanaya trying to subtly signal her. “Oh, sorry, I should go. Looks like I’m needed.” 

As she left, Jake plunked down on the bench and gave Eridan a friendly nudge. 

“Good show out there on the beach, by the by,” he said. “I think our commanding officer likes you.” 

“Likes me?” Eridan spluttered. “She said I ‘might be useful after all.’ I don’t think she believed me about anythin’ I said!” 

Jake grinned. “Nah, she was testing you! I’d bet my bottom dollar on it. Smart chap like you, been sailing a while in dangerous seas; you’ll be her First Mate by the time we get back!” 

Eridan stared at the human, totally unable to believe someone could be so optimistic - especially about him. He snorted, looking away. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. 

“Not the first time I’ve been called that. Bloody well won’t be the last, either.” Jake leaned back on the bench, feeling the pitch and roll of the deck as the waves caressed the ship. “Still, can’t see what’s got you so down. We’re back in the thick of it! Adventure, the high seas, treasure… it all sounds great to me. Especially since I’ve got some pals to share it with.” 

“Some ‘pal’ I am,” Eridan said. “You do know what I did, right?”

Jake nodded. “I wasn’t just running around the island like a hooligan that whole time, you know.” He paused. “Well, I did do that for a bit, to be fair. But I also talked to all the ladies. Our ladies, I mean, not the ones on the island. They told me what happened.” 

“So why are you even fuckin’ talkin’ to me?” asked Eridan. 

“Because I think you’re still a decent bloke after all that.” 

Eridan returned to staring at him in disbelief. 

“What? I mean it.” 

Eridan’s stare began to take on a brittle edge. 

“Alright, look. You messed up. But from what I saw in that chamber, with that slimy git from the Empire, you’re trying to make up for it.” 

“I- You- You can’t….” 

“Can’t what?” Jake shrugged good-naturedly. “When I saw what you did back there, and then saw you moping around for days afterward, I had a hard time believing it. You did good! Sure, it was impulsive, but I think the world’s a better place without that Hebi-whatever chap.” 

“But even so, Fef said it was stupid. She… she said we were fine and all, but….” 

“But you think she still hates you and is covering up for it.” 

Eridan nodded miserably. 

Jake clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, chum! You’re being too hard on yourself.” 

“What the hell would you know-” 

“I’d know a lot, actually. I’ve made my share of mistakes.” Jake looked down at the deck, hand laid over the tattoo on his shoulder. “The best thing you can do is apologize, and do better next time. You’ve got a lot of new chances for it. Don’t waste them.” 

“But-” 

“No buts!” The chipper youth playfully punched the troll on the arm. “Even when I made mistakes, they weren’t as bad as I thought they could be. I was always afraid I’d do something terrible. Something that’d ruin my friendships permanently. But all of my mistakes? They weren’t as bad because I had some good chums watching my back. So let’s watch each other’s, okay?” He held out his hand to the troll. 

Eridan looked at the offered hand. That nasty little voice was trying to tell him it was a lie, that this was just going to hurt more later. This time, he could push it away. 

He shook Jake’s hand. “Okay. I think I can try that.” 

Jake beamed until Rose tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re up,” she said. 

As he got up to go speak to the captain, he shot Eridan a gesture - his fingers pointed like his guns, and a wink. Eridan returned it.

==> Roxy: Discover 

“He just wants some answers, that’s all.”

Velka shifted as she trudged down the wide road, refusing to look Roxy in the eye. “I know it’s uncomfortable, believe me,” she said. “But Rune-”

“So what if he says you can’t talk to John?” Roxy tightened her grip on her spear. The wooden haft creaked. “I’m the only one who’s seen him face-to-face in five days! He’s going to go insane locked in there! I can’t….” She stopped in her tracks and stared, unseeing, down the road. Her voice shook. “I can’t leave him like that. Being alone is the absolute worst.” 

The scholar’s eyes flicked back and forth over the white paving stones. “I….” She swallowed. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“Fuck trouble!” Roxy’s sharp voice carried out over the snow-covered plains, startling a few birds out of their wintry perches. “Do you have any idea how he feels right now?”

“Wh-”

“Do you have any idea how… how….”

“I’m sorry,” Velka said softly. 

Roxy stopped halfway through wiping away the tear on her cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” Velka repeated. “I can’t- you don’t just ignore Rune or his orders. I feel for John, I really do, but if I do something and Rune finds out….”

“So he doesn’t find out.”

“He always finds out!”

“Then I’ll deal with him.” Roxy cracked her knuckles. 

“I… you… you’re braver than I am.” They resumed marching, and the plains soon began to give way to collections of spindly evergreens. 

“But I don’t know as much as you do. Not about….” She shrugged and gestured vaguely at their surroundings. “Whitewall. This road. It’s special, right?”

“Yes.” The pale stone pavement, perfectly level and just smooth enough to make walking easy, stretched from the gates of the city and marched far southward. Tall lantern-posts stood sentinel overhead, though many were broken and worn. An uncanny sense of order settled over it, which wasn’t helped by the fact that various hardy vines and creepers had grown prolifically alongside it, but hadn’t invaded the spaces between stones. It was as though the rest of the world had been pushed away. Velka always thought back to her time at the orphanage when she set foot on it. “It’s… old. As old as the city. The person who built the two made them as some kind of pilgrimage, I think. I would have to check my books. It was built as a safe route for travel. All travelers upon it are protected. Um.” Her eyes dodged to the side. “Mostly.” 

“Mostly?”

“Mostly.” Velka cleared her throat. “Those lantern-posts. You see how they reach out away from the road?”

“Yeah….” The posts had wide, flaring bases that stretched halfway up as support, leaving a sort of platform wide enough to stand on. The arch of the arms that held the lanterns was anything but thin and weak - each one was easily strong enough to support a large man’s full weight. Small branches, like leaves, almost formed a ladder….

Roxy’s stomach dropped. “Velka.”

“It’s a geas. Built into the road.” 

“You….” A lump had formed in her throat, making it very difficult to breathe. “You’re saying that….” 

“Anyone who commits violence upon the road.” 

Suddenly, the vines growing alongside them seemed considerably less innocuous. 

“Oh God.” 

“It’s… effective. Regret sets in. All the reports and stories say that it’s instant and overwhelming. A murderer feels the weight of what they’ve done.” 

“Oh God.”

Unconsciously, Roxy’s hand rose to her throat. 

“The stories spread. I think all of Creation knows it by now. It’s… effective,” Velka repeated. There was little else she could think to say. 

“Y-yeah. Let’s… let’s keep going.” 

“Right.”

They walked in a gallows silence down the white road. Winter was fading after the new year, leaving snow on the ground to melt and revitalize the earth. It still clung to trees and grass. The day’s warmth, such as it had been, was already cooling, and it would very likely be dark before they returned. As the sun began to set over the pine woods, the trees began to get thinner, ganglier, sicklier. The air felt thin and dusty.

Velka stopped. “This is the edge of our route tonight. The edge of the Fell.”

Roxy clutched the haft of her spear. Nowhere in her travels had she felt a place that felt so desolate. Even the dead worlds of her session had been truly that - dead. This place felt like setting foot on the last gasp of a dying man. The faint beating of her heart in her ears seemed to be very, very loud here. It was almost like something was lurking in the darkness, above her head perhaps, waiting to pounce on a misplaced breath and steal it for itself. It was taking all of her self-control not to start hyperventilating. 

Before she could ask anything, Velka answered. “Marama’s Fell. It’s a shadowland. A place where death reigns supreme. Ghosts walk the earth, here. The living are… less welcome. But we’re safe here, on the road. The spirits don’t like setting foot on it.” 

“And it’s just… here?”

Velka shook her head. “No, shadowlands don’t occur naturally. Like I said, death reigns. It’s, er… we don’t like to talk about it. This isn’t a very, um, sterling part of the region’s history.” 

Forcing herself to stand her ground, Roxy looked on. “We’re not supposed to go much farther then?”

“No, just checking here to see if there are any travelers coming up or bodies we need to- nevermind.” 

Roxy did her level best to ignore what Velka had carefully avoided saying. Her best was not what it might have been, given the circumstances. Desperately, she scanned the horizon, trying to find something, anything, to focus on. 

Movement caught her eye. She motioned towards it, not trusting her voice. 

Velka narrowed her eyes. Silently, she nodded to her patrolmate. Carefully, they approached. 

It was a long banner, made terribly ragged by exposure and wind, flapping in the faint, almost stagnant breeze. The black material was so thin it looked ethereal, and words in some indecipherable language were sewn into it in bone-white thread. Gaping holes left entire strings of characters piecemeal and even more unreadable. 

Roxy knelt down and gingerly ran her fingers over one of the more complete words. The whole thing looked like it could be some kind of list. Perhaps names. But why? She looked up at Velka. 

“I… I think I’ve heard of this,” said the scholar. “It’s called the Lost Banner. A few people have seen it before, here on one of the edges of the Fell….” She trailed off. 

The flag seemed to not be dangerous, at least. Roxy looked it over once more. What she had thought was embroidery around the edge turned out to be miniscule script, in the same strange runes as the rest of it. A vague thought turned over in her mind….

Velka laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and saw a ghastly, pale shape, staring through gaunt eyes at them. Her blood froze in her veins. 

The ghost was a pitiable figure. If it looked as it had in life, shortly before death, then Roxy realized it must have died of starvation or exhaustion. The echoes of skin hung off of where bones had once been, and the billowing rags it wore did nothing to hide the rest of its emaciation. It made no move towards them, not even as she got to her feet with exaggerated care. Absently, she realized she still held one edge of the banner. 

There was a low, tragedy-laden sound, and the ghost raised a skeletal arm and pointed at the banner. A few other blurry shapes began to fade into view, behind it. As Roxy watched the expression on its face, she felt her terror give way to pathos. 

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I did- I didn’t mean any harm to your flag.” 

Whispering filled the air like dread. 

“I think they’re talking to us,” murmured Velka, still staring at the ghosts. “It’s a very, very old dialect of Skytongue. I don’t understand much of it, but I think… I think they’re saying that there’s no harm done.” 

Roxy looked down at the banner again, then back up at the ghosts. “Did you come here to fix it?” She asked. “It’s in pretty bad shape.” 

The ghosts looked expectantly at Velka, who stuttered out a translation. They whispered again. 

“They say… I think they’re saying that they did. It’s their duty.” 

Hesitant, Roxy frowned. She thought for a moment, carefully considering what to say next. “Please,” she said, her throat tight, “what’s written on it?”

She didn’t need a translation to understand the tone of the whispers this time. _Us,_ it said. _Our names. What we used to be._

The idea resurfaced. “Velka,” she said carefully. “What happened in Marama’s Fell?”

The whispers surrounded them, swarmed their ears and minds like buzzing hornets. It was becoming clearer now, to Roxy. These ghosts had been there. What she clutched in her hand was their only memorial, the only record they had ever lived. She tightened her grip on the banner. 

“I want to help,” Roxy said, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. “I can fix this. Make it stronger. Please. Let me help.” 

The ghosts gathered around her, still staring, their hands outstretched in a mockery of a prayer. Her skin crawled, but she stood her ground, feeling the ghastly chill run over her as the words began to wrap themselves around her and worm through her ears into her brain. 

It was like having ice cubes slipped in under her skull. Each syllable sizzled with a deathly cold, but she hung onto them, gritting her teeth. She knew what they were doing - the ghosts were teaching her what they had written on their memorial. Even now, however, the words were beginning to slip away. 

“Again,” she said. “I need to know it.” 

The whispers were like blazons in her mind this time, burning away each frozen chunk of thought. It was agony, and yet not agony, unlike anything she had experienced before. Her eyes watered, and she couldn’t tell if it was from the effort of keeping herself together through the crucible of words, or the profound weight of the poem the ghosts had written. Each line was a verse, a lamentation of their pain and a plea to be remembered as the victims and martyrs of petty tyranny. 

Gasping, Roxy opened her eyes and saw that the road was far closer than it had been before. Velka knelt down next to her, face etched with worry. But it wasn’t over. There was one last thing. 

“The names,” she whispered, trying not to sob and almost succeeding. “I need the names around the border.” 

One last time, the ghosts whispered it all to her. There were so many, and as each one passed through her and into her she could feel the way each one of them had died, expiring under a driver’s lash or the heavy spectre of hunger and thirst. She felt their agony and took it, underlined every name written in her mind with it. Something had to be done and she would do whatever she could to bring these tortured souls - these people - some measure of peace. 

When she at last opened her eyes again, the ghosts had stepped back. Some had vanished. The first one knelt before her, and she could see the fine details of its wizened face. Now, the shade of Yatennu Iron Tortoise looked so much more human. The ghost smiled as she forced herself to stand. 

“Thank you,” she said as she reached to unhook the banner. “I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m done. I promise.” 

The ghost nodded, and turned to go. Gently, whispers once again filled the air. 

_Thank you,_ they said. 

From the shelter of a small copse, eyes that were far less dead watched them begin to stagger homeward under guidance of starlight..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is a bit overdue, but it's finally here! 
> 
> So, rather than ramble on about each bit, since I think they explain themselves fairly well, I want to talk about a thing that's been bothering me for a while and is part of why progress on this is so slow. 
> 
> Thing is, I'm really, really burnt out on Exalted right now. 
> 
> I've been really excited for the upcoming 3rd Edition, but I want to put this in perspective: we were promised it three years ago. And in that three years I've felt my enthusiasm wane as the time dragged on with little-to-no information, to finding out the entirety of the playtest had been canceled due to a small information leak, to getting the preview pdf and seeing it full of, frankly, weak writing in many places, an insistence on natural language in rules text which really makes it hard to make hard rules decisions, and a bevy of other issues. I could go on about these issues, but I won't because if I did I'd be here for hours.
> 
> And then we got an announcement that it would take a month, maybe more, to get a full index of the book before it could be ready for printing.
> 
> That's kind of been the straw that broke the camel's back. It's not even that the index will take a while - a month, from what I've been told, is fairly reasonable for a full, detailed one - but it's yet another delay in a long string of delays from a project that has been mismanaged and made me feel like we've been yanked around. At this point I'm not even mad anymore! I'm just tired of feeling drawn out and led on and disappointed. 
> 
> Let me be clear: I LOVE Exalted. It's wonderful and fun and inspires me to write stuff like this! But until I have the final, finished version of Exalted 3rd Edition in my hands, and until I feel like the books are being treated like professional projects, I'm not going to be keeping up on news. I'm going to stick to what we already have, and write based on that. I am not canceling this project or putting it on hiatus right now, most definitely not. I have written a lot here that I feel very proud of, which is a bit of a rarity for me. I hope you all continue to enjoy it, because Exalted and Homestuck alike are things that deserve creativity and love from their fans.
> 
> EDIT: So, after watching a LOT of Critical Role, I find it very amusing that the character I had mentally cast Matt Mercer for uses the phrase "You can certainly try." Before I'd watched it, or even heard of it. Oh, right, yeah, Burning Sky is totally voiced by Matt Mercer. That's a thing.


	16. Undying Solar Resolve

Once, there was a maiden who lost her home  
She had in her hands a hammer  
Which she swung with reckless abandon  
Shadows scattered where she hit  
But she brought herself only more ruin  
Sitting amongst the rubble of her bedroom  
And looking upon her broken bath  
“Action invites disaster,” she said.

==>: Velka: Teach 

The light of the late morning sun glimmered calmingly through the apartment window. Roxy had locked herself in her bedroom with some mysterious bundle the moment she had gotten home. Velka had bid them both a good night and returned less than an hour ago, bearing warm bread and hot tea for breakfast. She and John had prepared a plate, left it outside Roxy’s door, and sat down. 

After a dread moment of awkward silence, Velka swallowed the last of her tea and spoke. “Look. I could get in big trouble for this. But… but Roxy’s right. You have a right to know.” 

John nodded, waiting patiently. 

“Rune… did he tell you what being Chosen meant?”

“Well, no. He just vanished. But I did hear from that sun guy, he said something about divine fire and inheritance and….” He paused, thinking. “Who the hell is Ondar Shambal?”

Velka blinked. “What?” 

“The sun guy. He said something about Ondar Shambal, whoever that is.” 

“I… have no idea. I’ll look it up. Later. But right now, we have something else to talk about.”

“Oh, right, right.” John shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“The problem is,” Velka continued, “that I really don’t know where to start. You don’t know anything about Whitewall, or the North, or, well, anything, really. History, geography, anything about Creation itself.” She gave this some consideration while she poured herself another cup of tea. “Maybe that would be a good place to start, in that case.” 

“You tell me, I’m the one who doesn’t know anything.” 

“Okay. I’ll tell you what I can remember without looking in a book.” 

She took a deep breath and began. John wished he had a way to take notes.

“Whitewall is… old. Very old. Old enough that we think it predates the Shogunate. And that came before the Realm, which….” She trailed off, seeing John’s confusion. “Right. Let me start over.” 

Velka told John of the Realm, and what it stood for. She told him of the Empress, of her deeds, and of how her reach had not claimed Whitewall, but she had treated with the city. 

“But before the Realm,” she said, “there was the Shogunate.”

Long before the Empress had been born, sages and savants said that the Dragon-Blooded had ruled Creation in a disparate, scattered fashion, each one with enough power to do so claiming land and resources. Fighting amongst them was common, but it was better than the centuries, possibly millennia, of rule by the Anathema. The Dragon-Blooded had cast them down, destroying their empires of madness and depravity. 

“They can’t have been that bad,” said John, who had never heard the term “anathema” before. 

Velka gave him a look. “While there isn’t much in the records, Immaculate doctrine has a lot to say. They supposedly would take over the body of a normal person and drive them to terrible things. They offered power, but the price was often the lives of friends and family. There are stories about people whose skin was replaced with glass, or performers made to walk razor-wire tightropes for their entertainment. The Anathema were - and are, as the Immaculates say they’re still around - beings that twisted virtue and worsened vice.” 

“Wait a second, back up. Immaculates?”

“Oh, right.” Velka cleared her throat. “Apologies. The Immaculate Order is an order of monks who believe that the Empress was blessed by the Five Elemental Dragons, and that she was the embodiment of the virtue that let down the founders of the Shogunate defeat the Anathema.” 

John’s memory sparked. “You mean those guys in the robes and carrying the beads?” 

“While that could describe a rather large number of priests,” Velka grumbled, “I think I know the ones you mean.”

“Right, right, the ones that are always in, um, Foretown, right?” 

Velka nodded. “Yes. That district is where Whitewall sees the most trade, so naturally they preach there.” 

John thought about them for a moment. While he’d only ever seen them at a distance, they seemed alright, if a little holier-than-thou. He said so. 

“You should stay away from them, John. They… do not take kindly to someone exhibiting powers similar to that of the Dragon-Blooded.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The scholar shifted awkwardly. “It’s, ah, entirely possible they might mistake you for an Anathema.” 

“What? But I’m me! I’m still me! Nothing changed at all.” 

“And if I were an Immaculate, my response would be that you might think that, until the demon takes over your mind.” 

John was beginning to see the unfairness of the situation. “And they’ll accuse anyone, any Chosen, of being Ana… anemo… amath… that?”

Velka nodded. “Anyone who isn’t Chosen by the Dragons, it seems.” 

Rune’s insistence on secrecy made a bit more sense now. “So… what am I supposed to do, then?”

“I wish I could tell you. Unfortunately it would seem that the best course of action is to listen to Rune, for now.”

John sat back, gritting his teeth. It seemed he would have to go back to feeling useless. He couldn’t keep sitting here. He had to do something, had to go out and breathe deep, had to quench this fire in his chest that kept pushing at him to act. 

It was almost irritatingly appropriate, then, that Rune knocked on the door and let himself in.

Velka froze. John looked halfway between anger and a sort of relief. 

Rune gave the scholar a nod. “Velka, good morning. I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to excuse John and I.” He looked at his fellow Exalt. “We have… things we need to discuss.” Without a further word, he motioned for John to follow him out of the apartment. 

Outside, Rune paced down the street, John tailing him wordlessly. 

“I must apologize,” said Rune. “I know I haven’t exactly treated you fairly lately and believe me when I say I can understand. That aside, we have to discuss your future.”

“Good.” John set his jaw. “I hope that includes finding my friends.” 

“Ah. Well. I can’t exactly promise that.” Rune gestured to an alleyway and they ducked down through it. “But I can promise that you’ll have something to do while you search.”

“You mean besides this job you gave me and apparently don’t want me on anymore?”

Rune coughed. “Yes, about that… I’ve been speaking with the Syndics. They had their objections, but I convinced them that it would be best if you had some duties outside the walls. To familiarize you with the terrain, so to speak. Unfortunately the details will have to wait for just a little longer.”

“How much longer?”

“Oh, just until we have a bath,” said Rune, smiling.

The bathhouse fairly bustled with activity. John had never been during such a busy hour - patrols always lasted until the small hours of the morning, when very few were awake, much less in the mood to bathe. It left him a degree of privacy that was at least familiar, unlike the gulf created by the much more public space in this particular house. Despite the steam everywhere, and sinking low into the beautifully warm water, John felt as though the entire city could see him. 

“No one will care to listen in on us here,” said Rune. He slicked his red hair back, leaning against the edge of the pool. “Too much gossip going on. It’s really quite fascinating if you have the ear for it.” 

John merely waited, trying to not give the impression that he felt tremendously vulnerable. 

“So, details.” Rune rubbed his hands together, excitedly. “We - the Syndics and I - want you to start taking some walks out to some of the surrounding farms and villages. Nothing really difficult, mind you, just something to… well, reassure people. The ones we’ll be sending you to are close to Marama’s Fell, and sometimes the people there get, shall we say, nervous? All you need to do is go out there in an official capacity as a Guardian and remind them that they have protection.” 

“And… that’s it?” John asked.

“At the core of it, yes. But there is one caveat,” Rune added. “You have to keep the fact that you’re Chosen a secret. Not everyone is as willing to believe in us as the Syndics or the populace of Whitewall.” 

“I figured that out already.” 

Rune gave him a very inquisitive eyebrow. 

“Ah… from the guys by the gates. All that rambling about Anna-whatever.” John forced himself not to swallow, knowing it would give away his lie. 

The Eclipse Caste seemed satisfied with that, so he lowered the eyebrow. “Good. Observation is the key to survival. If you can see something coming, you can avoid it before it ever strikes.” 

In a moment of piercing insight, John said, “That… sounds like personal experience.”

Rune gave him a weary half-smile. “Yes, it is. Something I wish I’d known a long time ago. Although… perhaps it worked out for the better.” He looked at his own hand, pensively, then back at John. “Well. No matter. You know what you need to do now. I can teach you certain things, but the rest you’ll have to discover for yourself.”

John pondered this. If Chosen were like superheroes, then each one probably had different powers, even if they were similar in some ways, like Green Lantern and Superman both being able to fly and punch stuff but for different reasons. Rune probably could teach him enough to start, but it wasn’t like Superman could teach someone how to use a Lantern Ring. It made sense. 

“Okay,” he said. “I want to start now.” 

Rune grinned. “Thought you might. This steam has its uses….” 

==> Tavros: Show Off 

As the squabble in the streets began to approach, Tavros reconsidered drawing his lance. It was hardly going to be much use in a close-quarters, all-out brawl. On the other hand, putting it away now wouldn’t help much either. It had been drawn. There was little to do about that.

A man tumbled out of the melee. He lay on his back, dazed, and wisely decided to stay dazed as the mountain of scales and muscle known as Tlatecuhtli stepped politely over him. 

The Dragon King began to wade into the thick of the street brawl, hoping to find the instigator. He rolled his shoulder, gesturing to Tavros and Dave to follow him. Ducking under a flung sandal, they obliged. 

It didn’t take long. In the center of the brawl, a lone man danced around blow after blow, his long robes flowing in a highly artistic display of martial prowess. 

“And there’s our man,” Tlatecuhtli rumbled. “Well, boys, show me what you can do.” 

Tavros gave him a questioning look - not out of confusion, but of disbelief. 

Tlatecuhtli shrugged, just before he swayed to the side to avoid a flying tooth. One unfortunate brawler had suffered a direct hit to his jaw. “At this point, I don’t think he’ll sit down and have a reasonable chat. Go smack some sense into him for me.” 

Dave rolled his eyes behind his shades. Still, as tried as his turns of phrase were, the dinosaur guy had a point. Steeling himself, he inserted himself into the ring of people trying to get a swing at the robed man. 

Dave knew he was fast. Even without his God Tier powers, he was still fast enough to make people have to look twice to see where he really was, and that was an opening he could exploit. Even so, this man looked like he would have little trouble keeping up with him. Currently, he was holding off six opponents, and he had barely broken a sweat. Although, on second thought, that might have just been the desert heat. 

Seeing one of the six fall, clutching a bleeding (probably broken) nose, Dave stepped up. His broken blade flashed in the sunlight, catching the robed man’s attention. A drawn weapon always escalated a fight, and now he was the most dangerous thing in that man’s world. Then the man surprised him. 

Striking a brief pose that wouldn’t have been entirely out of place on a Saturday morning kids’ show, the monk wheeled his arms and stomped the ground. Ordinarily, this might have been hilariously ineffective outside of maybe being somewhat intimidating, but in this case, Dave felt a blast of wind hit him head-on. He braced himself against the ground, shielding his face from the sudden whip of dust with his forearms. Everyone else around him fell back, quite literally blown off their feet. 

Taking up another pose, the monk said something to him in what he would have called Bastard Chinese, if he knew any Chinese. So, Dave just went with Bastard. He responded in kind, non-verbally - a simple shrug and brief relaxation of his posture. It was an insult that only a trained fighter would have picked up on. By dropping his stance, he was rubbing it in the man’s face that he wasn’t much of a threat. 

The man lunged. Dave _blurred._

Tavros took the opportunity to step up. As Dave flickered to the man’s blind side, he shifted in to where Dave had stood before. He let his lance scrape the ground, hoping that the trick would distract his opponent. Unfortunately, said opponent seemed to be too practiced to fall for it, and all Tavros had managed was to alert the man to his presence. The sun-fire in his veins flared to life, and he felt his hands moving before his eyes could process the sweeping kick coming directly at his face. 

The kick bounced off the handguard of his lance, and the man took it in stride. He used the rebound to flip himself over, staying in the air for just a moment too long to be propelled by mere physics, and wheeled into another spinning strike. Dave ducked and Tavros skipped backwards. Out of his immediate reach, the two circled the man, slowly, watching his stance and footwork, ready to pounce on any openings. 

The monk had locked his gaze on the troll, deciding that he was the bigger threat of the two. The remaining combatants had pulled away, leaving only the three as they paced. 

At some unspoken signal, the monk attacked. Tavros hefted his lance again, deflecting the lunging punch. The man’s foot, unseen, struck at his lower leg, in what would have been a crippling blow to someone without metal replacements for the ankle and shin. To his credit, the monk did not hop away in pain. 

Unfortunately for him, his choice to remain close to Tavros was a poor one. The troll whipped the handguard around, delivering a blunt blow to his opponent’s face. Instinct shot down his spine and into his hands. He felt himself driving forward, elbow digging for the man’s gut. Before he could think to react to the graceful dodge, his knee was already in place, spiking upwards to where the man would be. 

A lucky shift in his movement prevented the monk from taking a mechanical knee to the groin. Instead, he caught the full force of the blow in his shin. His training gave him enough presence of mind to roll with it. Had he not, he would likely have set his weight down on a shattered leg. Instead, he spun into the air, carrying himself with the force of the blow, and then-

_Fzzt_

A hollow disc of blue whipped past Tavros’ face, narrowly missing his cheek. The troll dropped low, as he reasoned (correctly) that the weapon was already on a return trip. It whistled over his hair, passed under the still-airborne monk, and made a beeline for Dave’s face. 

Once again, Dave moved with preternatural speed. Where the disc went, he was not. Practice, endless practice, had given him the skill to move without betraying his intent. Most people would not be able to watch his movements and know where he was going. Instead, they would blink, and he would be gone. He watched the chakram, as he identified it, go past, then back once more. 

Tavros was ready this time. He hopped into the air - a movement he was unaccustomed to - and aimed his lance downward. Like a falling thunderbolt, he struck. 

Rather than aim for the monk, however, Tavros had elected to stop the monk’s weapon. A sharp ringing sound pierced the air as both lance and chakram hit the dry ground. A perfect bullseye had pinned the disc. 

The monk landed, swept his robes around, and glared at Tavros. 

Just as he coiled himself to lunge, a rock whistled out of the crowd and beaned him neatly in the back of the head. 

The crowd parted as he collapsed, drawing back like the ocean before Moses. A large, well-aged man with skin like weathered stone strode through. To say that he gave off an impression of wisdom and strength would have been a tremendous understatement. Words such as “stately” or “masterful” would have been better applied. He was built like a warrior true, and though his hair was beginning to whiten it was clear he had all the vigor necessary to carry a city upon his back. Or, perhaps as his robes suggested, he could carry a faith. 

An amused grunt from Tlatecuhtli caught Tavros’ attention. He recalled the Dragon King grumbling about Immaculates; perhaps this newcomer was the monk’s master?

The monk did not have the chance to recover himself gracefully. Instead, the older man picked him up by the collar, shook him, and gave him a reprimand that wasn’t so much sharp and to the point as it was decidedly spear-like. 

Turning to the crowd, the older man dropped his still-dazed charge. “I must apologize,” he said in clear, slightly-accented Riverspeak. “While we may preach the word of the Immaculates, it would seem that my student still needs to learn that we do so more effectively through righteous deeds rather than pointless challenges and bull-headed stubbornness.” 

The younger monk opened his mouth to publicly object, but seemed to lose his balance. His face hit the dirt once more. Only Dave, Tavros, and Tlatecuhtli caught sight of the stone shifting quietly back into place. 

“Now then,” said the elder. “We can all go on with our day. If any of you injured here require serious treatment, please visit our itinerants’ monastery on the edge of town. Tell them that Sparrow has caused trouble again. They will know what you mean.”

He began to drag his charge out of the ring. People parted once more to let him pass, but he stopped as he noticed the human, the troll, and the Dragon King. He gave them an appraising look, one that went on for long enough that Tavros began to suspect that he had figured something out….

“Ah, yes,” said the monk. “Please, accept my personal apologies for my student. I saw your skill at holding him back. I am grateful that you stepped in and prevented him from causing further harm.”

Tavros gave him a nervous smile. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “We couldn’t just let things get, um, out of hand.” He pulled his lance up and out of the ground, and made to retrieve the chakram. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “No need to return it,” said the monk. “I think losing one of his prizes will go some way to teaching my student some humility. Or at least I would hope so.” 

Taken aback, Tavros straightened up. “Oh. Um. Well. Thank you. I’ll, uh, make sure it stays safe. You know, in case you ever need it again.” 

The monk smiled. “It is good to see such… thoughtfulness in one so young. Usually I have to drill that into people.” He offered a ritual bow. “If, by any chance, you hear the call of duty and faith… well, do come to visit our temples. I should be glad to have a pupil so attentive.” With that, he grunted and resumed dragging the fallen student away. 

Tlatecuhtli clapped both boys on the shoulder as the crowd dispersed. “Well,” he rumbled, “good job. Glad to see you both have some experience, at least. Now, let’s see….” He rubbed his claws together, much like a plotting merchant, though most merchants did not create a stony rasping when they did so. “I think it’s time for a drink.” 

“A… drink.” Dave’s voice, normally flat with stoic irony, was flatter with disbelief. 

The Dragon King’s toothy grin could have been frightening were it not for the way his eyes gleamed. “Of course! Got to have a drink when discussing business.”

Tavros and Dave shared a glance - the kind two friends exchange when they suspect they’re getting into deeper trouble than they bargained for. 

“And make no mistake,” continued Tlatecuhtli, “this is business. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours, boys.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this….” mumbled Tavros. 

“Oh, trust me. You’re going to _love_ this.”

== > Jane: Parkour 

Jane hated most of Nexus. She hated the smog, the crowded streets, and the mercantile attitude that made people think of life as a commodity. 

The sunset over the city, however, was beginning to grow on her. 

Kitted out in her Maid of Life robes, Jane hauled herself over the edge of a flat roof. Four stories below, the streets were once again fogging over. She wished Roxy could see her like this, or even just the way the smog clouds from the industrial quarter caught the rays of the sinking sun. Something told her not to worry too much about that. Roxy would see her again soon enough. In the meantime, there were slaves that needed liberating. 

A brief sprint and a full leap later, Jane stood on the roof of a rich slaver’s townhome. The bastard had picked a good location for himself, right next door to a busy tavern. A drunk stumbled out and down the alley below, tripping noisily over leftover junk. Invisible thanks to the great barrier of human consciousness prohibiting looking up, Jane began to lower herself down to a window. 

The plan for tonight was simple. Jane would make her way inside the house, open a few locks, distract the sparse patrols of guards, and let the slaves make their own way out. After her first excursion, Terezi had advised her to do nothing to break the Dogma. While they could hide from the penalties for breaking civilities, none of them wanted to risk the wrath of this Emissary. As freeing slaves could be taken to be obstructing trade, they had come to the conclusion that slaves freeing themselves (even with a little help) would not be pursued. Or, at least, it couldn’t be traced back to them. 

The window - a large, expansive pane of glass with a few joints here and there - had been left ajar in the city’s heat. Cautiously, Jane tried to get a view of the room inside. No good. She couldn’t get herself in a good enough position to see without risking exposing herself to the potential occupants. Her eyes scanned the woodwork of the house’s detailing, hoping to find… there!

The windowsill extended just ever so slightly past the window itself; scarcely three, maybe four, inches of wood formed a ledge that no human being could have stood on. At least, not a normal human being. 

Jane took a deep breath, and trusted herself to her balance. Gingerly - not from doubt or fear but for the necessity of stealth - she set her foot on it. Any other person would have fallen, as the wood could not have supported the weight. Even birds had to be careful when perching. But it held for Jane. Her body felt light, but more than that, it was as though every inch of it had been perfectly honed for balance. On her one foot, she leaned effortlessly over to get a peek into the room. 

No one was inside. Excellent.

Without breaking form, Jane inched across the sill and slipped in through an open pane. It was quick, the work of but a moment, as even the dull-minded masses could have noticed a figure silhouetted against the lamplight. Soft carpet muted her footfalls completely. 

From the top floor, Jane would have a hard time making it to the basement where the slaves were kept. Her informant had admittedly been a small servant boy, paid off with a magic trick and some cheap street confections, but he’d been too awed by the trick to lie. Coming in from the top was, however, still easier than trying to get in from the ground floor. The entrances and exits were too well-guarded. An approach from inside, on the other hand, was outside of their scope of strategy. They’d be too busy stopping people from getting in to realize when someone already had. 

The room she’d stepped into, judging from the rich carpeting, various _objets d’art_ scattered around, and location, must have been the slaver’s private study. Jane briefly considered swiping a knick-knack or two out of spite for the reprehensible man, but she knew that her presence would have to be totally undetected, at least for now. 

The silence of the house was almost eerie. The master of the house had to be somewhere, but it was nowhere close. Once again, Jane took a deep breath, and she felt her senses sharpen. The air on her skin, pushed by the open window; the faint scent of dust and fermented fruit, hops, and the bite of alcohol, wafting from a voluminous cabinet; the grain of the wood in the baseboards and the lines where chisel had struck marble on the statuettes; all this and more came into focus. Passing an expansive, luxuriant couch, there was the whiff of something she couldn’t identify, not that she wanted to if her suspicions were correct. Putting it out of her mind, she instead focused her ears on the door and the hall behind it. 

Faintly, she could hear footsteps, and the low timbre of voices in whispered conversation. She didn’t have long before two people, as she counted it, would enter. Swiftly, she dropped to the floor, once again muted by the carpet, and darted into the shadows under the liquor cabinet. 

Jane had just enough time to make herself reasonably comfortable and well-hidden before the door opened. In walked the slaver she had targeted, a tall man who was beginning to show some girth in his later years, as well as what seemed to be a longtime business compatriot, if his similar dress and demeanor were anything to go by. 

“... and if not for that pitiable lack of strong leadership,” the slaver was saying, “then perhaps the Blank Scrolls would still be in business.” 

“Oh, of course,” said the compatriot. “Which is not to say that their assets haven’t been extraordinarily helpful in my own… acquisitions.” 

“Naturally, naturally.”

“Speaking of acquisitions, how are your latest?”

A hint of something like pride, except far less wholesome, crept into the slaver’s voice. “Oh, a good lot, a good lot. Should fetch some good prices. Hardly any should come out of the basement pens with a cough.” 

Jane made a mental note to tip her informant with some slightly less cheap confections the next opportunity she got. 

The compatriot grunted an assent. “Excellent. And you… pardon me, but I can’t help but wonder, you did say you were going to make a couple of personal sales out of this group?”

“Yes, yes indeed. A few clients wanted some personal looks rather than entrust it to their agents. I’m making some house calls late tomorrow night.” 

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You insist on giving things a personal touch.” Jane fought the urge to gag. “But you’re not… afraid?”

“Now why would I be afraid?”

“Surely you’ve been hearing the word about the killer roaming the streets?” Jane’s already-heightened hearing sharpened further. 

The slaver snorted, sounding more like a pig than he probably thought he did. “Oh, that. Nonsense and nothing to worry myself over.”

“You haven’t…?” The associate trailed off.

“Haven’t what?”

“You must admit that it is suspicious. The blacksmith, the mercenary, the enforcer… they’ve all been connected to you at some point.” 

Jane tensed. A multitude of thoughts swirled around her head. Most of it was disbelief that she could have gotten so lucky. The rest of it was her forcefully reminding herself to stay hidden. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

The compatriot shifted forward in his seat. “You hired the smith, didn’t you? Only a few weeks ago. And both the mercenary and the enforcer were in your employ at about the same time.”

“Yes, yes. Your point? They have worked for many people.” The slaver stood up and began to approach the liquor cabinet. “And while I am getting myself some refreshment, do enlighten me as to the nature of my connection with the Lookshyan girl.” 

“Oh. Yes. I’d forgotten….” 

Jane let out a small huff of frustration. So had she. Even so, there was valuable information to be gained here. 

The slaver paused. Jane froze, or at least held herself more stiffly than she had before. Had he heard her?

The cabinet door came open with a grunt. “Damned lock. Keeps sticking.”

“You haven’t had it fixed?”

“And let some riffraff near my collection?” Jane could hear liquid pouring and a glass set down. 

“I suppose you have a point.” The slaver took a deep draught and poured another two drinks as his compatriot continued. “Since I’ve brought it up anyway, what do you think is really going on with this murderer?”

“Quite simple, really. Some madman has got it in his head that he’s acting on behalf of some god of justice.”

The compatriot accepted the drink with a brief thanks, took a sip, and pressed on. “Really? What makes you think that?”

“Everyone knows that fool of a blacksmith was charging extra for shoddy goods. Got more than a few killed because their armor tore, I’d wager. So the killer gets revenge. Takes it further with the mercenaries, probably because they killed his mother or something.” 

“And the Lookshyan?”

“Well, maybe our murderer is Lookshyan himself. Trying to get ahead in their ridiculous army of a city.”

“From what I understand, the poor thing wasn’t military. Daughter of one of the gentes, I believe. Set to marry a boy from another.” 

“Hah!” The slaver finished his glass triumphantly. “There you have it, then. Our killer wanted a better rank or a job or something like that, and killed her to make room. Or to threaten her family, or her betrothed, or….”

The slaver continued his speculation as Jane compared what she’d heard to the files she’d read. Terezi was combing over them even now, drawing connections as best she could with Vriska’s help. Useful as it was, Terezi’s method of “seeing” blended poorly with cheap vellum and ink. The Lookshyan, Yushuto Mita, had been in Nexus to visit her betrothed, that was true. The gentes were the ruling clans of Lookshy - Dragon-Blooded not beholden to the Empire. An alliance between two of them would make the city more stable. As for Mita herself, she had been out at night for unknown reasons. 

There were still holes in the theory, however. Mita had been the first victim. Then the blacksmith. Whoever this killer was, they had little connection to the slaver… unless….

Mita had been first. Terezi had said that the method of killing suggested planning. Lots of planning. But the other methods showed little more than casual brutality, and a twisted sense of poetic justice. 

Could there be two? 

Jane narrowed her eyes. This was becoming too complicated. She logged all of the conversation away, to bounce off of the trolls later. For now, she had to wait until she had her chance to open the locks and accomplish her original mission. 

Unfortunately, waiting meant that there was little to do other than think. She couldn’t stop herself from speculating. Multiple killers made sense. But on the other hand, it seemed unlikely that someone could copy the bloody handprints. Especially since by all reports, they showed up unnaturally fast. In the case of Arin, the Iron Brotherhood enforcer, he had cried out, died, and been found covered in the handprints in the scarce moments it took the nearest mercenary patrol to round the corner. In any other case, Jane would have dismissed it, but there was the distinct possibility of something supernatural at work. From what she had learned of Nexus, and from what had happened to herself, it was even likely. But that still didn’t rule out multiple killers…. 

It all made things too complicated. She needed more information. _They_ needed more information. At the moment, all of her speculation was chasing itself in circles. 

Eventually, the slaver and his compatriot retired. Jane held herself in hiding, listening to them retreat down the hall until they were cut off by descending a staircase. Good. Now she could do what she came here to do. 

As she stood up, her sharpened hearing picked up a distinctive whisper. 

“Jane,” someone was hissing. Outside. “Jane,” they hissed again. She focused, and found she recognized the voice of Vriska. 

“Listen,” she continued, “I know you can hear me with those crazy bullshit superpowers of yours. Terezi and I got bored and you were taking too long so we came to make sure you weren’t dead. If you’re not, then, like, shove something out a window or something.” 

Jane crept over to the large window she’d entered through. Terezi and Vriska were leaned against the tavern nearby. As stealthily as she could, she waved to them. 

Vriska caught it and discreetly elbowed Terezi. “Great, not dead. Now get your doughy ass out of there so we can go to bed.” 

As she ducked back down and set about slinking through the halls, Jane wasn’t sure if she was more bothered by the baking pun or the insult about her derriere. Probably both, in combination. 

The way down to the basement was free of obstacle, until she reached the ground floor landing. Hearing footsteps, Jane ducked into the shadows under the open stairway. A servant trotted past, clearly tired but still intent on fulfilling her obligations for the day. Good. A ring of keys jangled on her belt. Even better.

She stopped at what should have been the door to the basement, and stood there. Not good. 

Jane was spared the effort of coming up with a distraction when a scream came from outside. It was human, distinctly so. The servant began to leave, and as she walked past the stairs to investigate, Jane was able to snatch the keys from her belt like an arrow piercing a falling apple. 

No one else seemed to be interested in the-

A flurry of activity forced her deeper into the shadows. Thankfully, none of the house employees seemed to pay any attention to anything but the growing commotion outside. Soon, they all passed, and Jane listened to the murmurs as she silently opened the basement door. 

“The tavern, next door-”

“I heard a scream!”

“Another murder?”

“- oh, gods, not-”

“Who is it?”

The sound faded away as Jane darted into the basement. Several cells - no more than iron bars set across pockets of cold stone hewn into the walls - held gaunt people of various shapes. With a jaunty grin, she flipped the keyring and strode past one of the doors. 

“Oh dear,” she said, holding the keys carelessly. “I certainly hope I don’t drop these very vital and important items. It would certainly be a disaster if I, an employee of this fine house, were to lose them.” 

The keys clanked to the ground in front of one of the healthier-looking would-be slaves. She tipped him a wink. Then she clambered back up the stairs, making an offhand remark about unguarded doors. 

Mischief managed. Roxy would have been thrilled by the reference. 

Jane let herself out through the scullery door, which conveniently opened into the back alley. Trusting her internal compass, she rounded the corner that should have led to the tavern. 

The young woman almost found herself bowled over by a long stream of mangy fur, beady eyes, and long, fleshy tails. 

Fighting down revulsion, Jane scrambled to keep her balance as the rats swept past. A hideous, coppery tang hung in the air, just barely detectable to her more acute nose. Was that…?

She looked over at the tavern’s portion of the alley. Terezi and Vriska were crouching over a body. An older man, from this distance, his eyes staring and his mouth open in a silent scream. His arms had flopped over the bed of broken glass - shattered bottles of all kinds of alcohol - in a way that could have been grotesquely comical. His shirt was gone, and his chest-

Jane’s stomach heaved. 

His chest was a wet, crimson mess of mangled meat. The rats had torn into him, biting away until they’d reached into the cavity and torn out his heart. 

Terezi inclined her head away from the scene. She’d knelt down next to him, leaning on her cane for support. “Fancy running into you here,” she said. It lacked the usual sardonic flair or accompanying grin. 

“So this is going to be a problem,” said Vriska, standing up. She gestured vaguely all around her. 

The scene was covered in bloody handprints. The investigation had just gotten far more difficult.

==> Coshell: Fulfill your duty 

Joining up with the Sijani had been easy. Coshell had taken his time to pick his mark carefully, knowing that he could exploit the workings of his own Arcane Fate to insinuate himself. Few mortals could accurately recall a Sidereal’s face, and so it was easy to make them think that it was familiar if ill-remembered. All it had taken was a strategic drink, a well-placed pat on the back, and a few queries to the Loom of Fate in advance. He knew the names to know. Soon after, he had been on the road to Nexus. 

A stranger had joined the diplomatic caravan, and they were a strange one indeed. Few Morticians ever left Sijan. Fewer still would undertake a journey to Thorns for fear that it would break their neutrality. Possibly they feared other things, as well. Whenever he had an opportunity, Coshell watched this stranger. The Sijani diplomats seemed to treat them with a sort of… deference? No, reverence. While Coshell had not studied the City of the Dead at length, he doubted that even esteemed members of the order were afforded the subtle awe that he could see. 

Even now, in this roadside inn, he could see it in the way the diplomats talked to the Mortician over dinner. While the former had all taken some of the more extravagant options available on the humble menu, and were drinking like fish, the latter had kept to plain bread and cheese, with only simple tea. Even that was barely touched, with only a few bites having vanished behind the mask. As jokes were cracked, said mask would tilt appreciatively, or perhaps merely politely. It couldn’t have been easier to spot a wolf among hunting dogs. 

“... and then I told him it wasn’t a bird, it was my kid!” One of the diplomats finished his anecdote to raucous laughter. Coshell watched with amusement as the mask bucked backwards. Perhaps they weren’t so strange after all. 

The dinner was wrapping up. The diplomats began to trail away, departing for bed. It would require an early start tomorrow morning to reach Nexus before dark. As they left, each of them bid the Mortician good night in the unique Sijani dialect. Coshell didn’t know it well, but he knew enough to tell what was and wasn’t a name. 

_So,_ he thought to himself, _the Mortician’s name is Zhouhan Xen._

This made things easier for him. At his mental command, a small, invisible spider flitted off to its kin on the Loom. Moments later, it returned with an answer: the mortal named Zhouhan Xen was dead. Almost imperceptibly, Coshell’s eyes narrowed. He sent another query, then another, and another.

Yes, really dead.

Roughly forty years ago.

Natural causes. 

Buried by family in Sijan. 

Succeeded by a grandchild, whose name was .

Coshell stopped. He asked the spider for the name again. 

, it told him. 

The Sidereal rubbed his chin, eyeing the Mortician. An impersonator? No, few were good enough to fool the Loom of Fate, and those that were still had names. Having studied the records of his teachers, Coshell only knew of three who had stolen their names from the Loom, and all three were dead or banished from Creation at the hands of his predecessors. 

_A masked person with a dead Mortician’s name, who needed neither food nor drink…._

A chill went down Coshell’s spine. He wanted it to not be true. The servants of the Deathlords had been infamously unable to infiltrate the ranks of the Mortician’s Order. How could one have now? 

Closing his eyes, he fell back on an old, old technique he had been taught. The world fell away until only sound remained. Focusing his Essence, Coshell listened. 

The creak of the floorboards became louder, then muted as he listened past the people there. 

The settling of the rickety old building, imperceptible to the mortal ear, did the same. 

His ears focused on the slow, steady rhythm of his own heartbeat, until he could hear nothing else. Then, he opened his mind to the heartbeats of the other people in the room. 

The barkeep, behind him. Hostlers, on the other side of the room, in the corner. 

A lingering diplomat, slowly, drunkenly making his way up the stairs. 

A family of dormice, tucked safely away in the wall, where the cat couldn’t get to them. 

The collective, tiny pulse of the line of ants trundling away between the floorboards. 

But not the Mortician’s. 

Before Coshell could fully understand what this meant, there was a crash from upstairs. 

The tiny remnant of him that still clung to his mortal ways told him it was merely someone falling out of bed. The centuries with the Bureau of Destiny, however, told him it was not. 

In a flash, he was up the stairs before anyone else had moved. The door to the diplomats’ room rattled as something heavy hit it. 

Coshell reached into his sleeves and withdrew his thin, disc-bladed palm knives. Held flat in his hands, they turned a simple chop into a deadly cut. On the rare occasions he’d had to fight for himself, they had caught far too many unaware. 

Bracing himself for another heavy crash, he pressed his back to the wall, just outside the door. Nothing. Nothing for several short breaths. Whoever it was, they were now searching the room silently. 

Coshell sidled back down the corridor, edging into the nearest empty room, and was delighted to find that it did have a window. As gently and stealthily as possible, he opened it, and crept out to the narrow windowsill. 

One of the windows had been smashed. If his calculations were correct, it was that of the diplomats’ room. 

Rolling his eyes at the indignity of late-night acrobatics, Coshell once again called on his Essence. 

Gently, his feet tapped the neighboring windowsill. It held his full weight, as though he were a feather. Fortunately, the occupants of the room had already drawn the curtains. Again, Coshell made the leap, landing on the sill of the broken window. 

The room inside was a charnel house. All six of the diplomats had been slaughtered - blood spattered the walls in a grotesque parody of art; empty, glassy eyes stared back at Coshell as he looked in. One lay against the door, her back having been broken so that while her upper half faced into the wood, her lower half jutted away at a nearly perfect right angle. Another had lost his head completely. It still lay on the pillow, while his body had been unceremoniously dumped off the side of the bed. 

No movement betrayed the assassin’s presence. 

Steeling himself, Coshell stepped inside the room. The stench of blood and viscera had been strong from the outside, in the night air, but inside it was overwhelming. His palm knives felt like they would twitch out of his hands at any moment, scything into the darkness. 

Coshell knelt to examine one of the bodies. A constellation of puncture wounds had torn the poor man’s back open, running through to the front, but no missiles remained. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the Sidereal saw the darkness move. 

With half a breath, he was back on the windowsill, having never left it as far as the rest of the world was concerned. A fire-blackened dagger slammed into the floorboards where he would have been, had he stepped inside. The wielder of the blade turned, leaving it and hefting a shortbow. Coshell could see what looked to be a young man, deathly pale with corpse-blond hair cropped messily short, as though with a knife. His eyes betrayed little emotion as he looked upon the Sidereal. 

“Damn,” he growled. “Heard you and yours were tricky.” 

Before Coshell could properly react, the young man had already raised his bow and taken aim, pulling back the bowstring without an arrow nocked. As the dark metal of the bow’s body glimmered with ghostly light, a bolt of black energy manifested between the man’s fingers. 

Coshell dropped from the windowsill as the necrotic Essence whistled over where his head had been moments before. 

He hit the ground in a fighting crouch, rolling to the side on instinct. The young man vaulted out of the room, already aiming again. Two more arrows hit the ground and dissipated before he landed. 

Hoping to catch him at a weak range, Coshell danced close, using a kata he had studied and practiced for over a century. His opponent fired his bow again, missing by a wide margin as the Sidereal was suddenly much closer than would have been normally possible. He stumbled back, narrowly avoiding Coshell’s flattened palms as they cut a cross in the air. 

Having thrown himself into the attack, the Sidereal was left vulnerable. His opponent drove a knee into his gut, lifting him off the ground with the sheer swift force. Coshell tumbled backwards, winded and cursing himself for his foolish haste. His master would have been furious. Fortunately, he failed to continue disappointing the memory of his master and rolled away, narrowly avoiding a bolt of energy. 

Coshell was not a fighter. The Chosen of Serenity, in many ways, preferred to resolve their conflicts with pens and not swords. To say that this particular Chosen was far out of his depth would be an understatement. And yet, faced with not one, but two Abyssal Exalted, he had little choice. The servants of the Deathlords could not be allowed to succeed in whatever their mission was, at least not more than this one already had. 

A rising tide of Essence within him surged forth. His body burned, briefly, with a flare of crimson, rather than his usual cool blue, as he attuned himself to the ways of Mars. The teachings of the Maiden of Battles sharpened his reflexes, and he spun as he threw himself to his feet, deflecting a lethal bolt with his bare hands. Even faster than before, he charged the Abyssal. 

Once! Twice! He struck his opponent along his side, leaving wounds that should have bled profusely. Instead, a ring of sanguine black began to glow on the Abyssal’s forehead, and he spun away, far further than he should have from the force of the blows. In retaliation, his opponent’s hands became a blur and bolt after bolt of black Essence tore through the air. Pulling at Fate’s threads once again, Coshell returned to the ground, having never stood to pursue an attack. It was an elegant defense, one only usable by Fate’s Chosen, but it wouldn’t help him for long. His thread on the Loom would snap and fray if pulled on too much. Beyond that, each passing second drew a greater risk of the other Abyssal joining the fray. 

Opting for a different tactic, Coshell rolled towards the stables and dived behind a bale of hay. While the Abyssal could keep him at range indefinitely, such a strategy required being able to see him. It was a desperate hope, but if he could stay hidden for just long enough…. 

The door to the inn slammed open. Coshell didn’t look, but he heard heavy footfalls. The other Abyssal must have come out. Now was the time to make his move, before all was lost. 

Moving with all the blinding speed he could muster, he leapt from his hiding place. In a single bound, he closed the distance between himself and his target, who had been distracted by the new arrival. Hands raised in martial position, he aimed for the Abyssal’s throat. 

The Abyssal turned, saw him coming, and fired his bow. 

The next few seconds blurred away into a melange of agony. Coshell felt cold, hungry fire puncture his gut and rip away at his soul. He felt a shift in his momentum, a change in direction. He felt the thin wood of the stable door try to catch him and fail. He felt dirt and straw scrape his back. His vision cleared to show the looming ceiling above him. Detachedly, he noted that he didn’t feel nearly as much pain as he expected to. 

The Abyssal leaned over him, bow drawn. The young man’s face was calm, calculating. He held no passion for what he was about to do, nor remorse. But before he could loose the final arrow, he was bulled aside. 

The Mortician stood over Coshell, silent and grim as a sentinel headstone. “I am Zhouhan Xen, Honored Mortician of Sijan,” they said. “And you will stand down.” 

The Abyssal sprung to his feet, dark anima causing the shadows to flicker over his face. He drew the bow once more. “Make me,” he challenged. 

Xen made no move. The Abyssal fired. 

Xen still made no move. Xen did not flinch as the arrow impacted against their robes, dissipating as if it had been no more solid than mist. 

Clearly defeated by this implacable wall of personhood, the Abyssal spat. “Fine,” he said. “My job’s done anyway. Hope your master likes answering to the Mask of Winters.” 

By now, a stablehand had come out to investigate the commotion. He stopped dead in terror upon discovering the scene. The Abyssal swept himself up onto a horse, presumably one that belonged to one of the patrons, grabbed the reins, and took off. The stablehand forced his voice to choke out a cry of “Anathema!” before he was trampled by the escaping Exalt. 

Xen gracefully tended to the dead man, leaving him in as gentle a repose as possible, before turning their attention back to the fallen Sidereal. “I know not what to say,” they said. “I only wish I had intervened sooner.” 

Coshell regarded the Mortician with a strange, distant curiosity. Had he been wrong? “The… the arrow…” he croaked. 

“Ah. Yes. I am… difficult to harm.” Xen seemed to look away. “One of the advantages of my Exaltation. Necrotic Essence gives me little to fear, besides.” 

“Then… it would seem I was right. You are also one of the Abyssal Exalted.”

“Indeed. And you would, by your eyes, be one of the Sidereal Exalted.” Xen offered a polite bow. “I am honored.” 

“And here I thought we were supposed to be a secret,” Coshell muttered. 

“It is safe with me,” replied Xen. “With my moment of becoming Chosen came some understanding. Memories. Old impressions. Those who came before me had great respect for your work. As do I, from one master of craft to another.” 

“Yes, the Morticians. Ever the delicate work.” 

Xen nodded. “Even in death, or would-be death, I still serve the order and the dead alike.” 

“Then the Deathlords…?”

Had Xen been more impassioned on the subject, they might have scoffed. “Such tyrants hold no sway over me. I discarded all my identity save the name of my grandfather when I accepted this power.” 

“I see.” Coshell pondered this for a moment. “Your dedication is admirable. As is your charity.” 

“The servants of the Mask of Winters will have no love of mine.” Xen’s voice took on a hardened edge. “Thorns is a dangerous place for living and dead alike. I have waited for too long to take action.” 

Something stirred in Coshell’s memory - a half-remembered prophecy from decades ago. “Perhaps…” he said, more to himself than Xen, “perhaps then you were the one I was meant to trust.”

Xen tilted their head in what must have been a questioning look.

“A prophecy from years ago left me wondering. It foretold of someone I would not think I could trust, and failing to do so would cost me dearly.” 

“I am not sure I understand.”

“I am dying,” said Coshell, “and only the greatest works of Exalted medicine could change that.” 

The hood tilted downward. “I am sorry, then,” said Xen. “For I am no physician.”

“No apologies necessary. I have accepted my fate.”

“Yes… Fate. Sidereals do have their ties to it, don’t they?” 

Coshell laughed, once, then cut himself off as harsh pain blossomed across his chest. “Indeed.” 

The two let silence pass. 

“If it is not too much trouble,” said Coshell, “I would like to see the stars one last time.” 

Xen nodded. “Of course.” With great care, they knelt and lifted the Sidereal off the floor. Their arms were strong and secure, and they carried him out the door with surety. 

Coshell smiled as he felt the cool grass embrace him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

The Sidereal’s eyes mirrored the night sky above. Xen knelt and bowed their head respectfully. “If I may… where were you from?”

Coshell smiled bitterly. “I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry. Five hundred years of service, and I can’t recall my home with my dying breaths.” He paused. “Someone from the Bureau of Destiny will come to claim me. I made arrangements.”

“Then I will stand vigil for you, until they arrive.” 

“Thank you.” Coshell’s voice grew weaker. “By rights I should be your enemy, and yet you do me this honor.” 

“You are no enemy of mine. And this is merely my duty.” 

“Still. You have my gratitude. Even beyond my passing. Thank you… friend.” 

Xen waited, allowing these final words to settle in the night air. Then, with the utmost tenderness, they closed Coshell’s eyes. 

==> Deathknights: Converse 

Dead, empty eyes stared at the horizon. The corpse they belonged to jerked as a blade tore free from the torso it had been embedded in. A wet splatter dyed the farmhouse floor red. 

“Honestly, Scripture,” said a gaunt, rangy woman in scholar’s robes. “One would think you were trying to make this more difficult for me.”

“In that case, ‘one’ would be correct, my dear Curse,” acidly replied a rough-hewn man, deathly pale in blackened tracker’s gear. He smirked cruelly. “It’s simply more fun that way.” 

With a flourish and a command of Essence, the woman tore the spirit out of the bleeding body. A mere gesture, and she severed the higher half of its soul from the lower. She discarded the former, letting it go where it would, as it was useless to her. The latter, she bound to her will with a few words in a language only remembered by ancient spectres. Fierce-eyed and starving, it obediently stood with the six others she had created, leashed by the flux of her anima. Having done her work, she turned back to the man. “Antagonizing me will avail you little when that arm of yours needs tending,” she said. 

Endless Hunting Scripture caressed the arm in question. It was a beautifully-made prosthetic, to his eyes, a perfect replacement for his right arm after it had been lost, severed from the shoulder down by a lucky Immaculate Monk. Bones from over a dozen gifted blademasters, including those of the quickly-slaughtered monk, had been set around with thick cords of soulsteel and ashen jade, giving it the look of grey muscle. The true beauty of it, however, was in the souls of those blademasters, trapped in eternal fury and torment, bound to the assemblage of bone. It made the limb far stronger than any mortal could hope to achieve, and gave it a hideously, marvelously hungry edge of killing intent. It needed the occasional binding or re-binding from Curse in Sunset, who had designed it, and the sheer anger of the donors left it liable to turn on him if not tended to, but that made it all the more perfect to Scripture. He wiped his viciously curved blade on the jerkin of the dead farmer, then sheathed it with a flashy twirl. 

“Nonsense,” he purred. “You know that it’s just as likely to harm you as it is me if I let it.” 

Curse flicked her hand dismissively. “And you would very likely be torn to ribbons before I even got close. If you let it.” Despite her companion’s attitude, she remained detachedly professional.

“Perhaps.” Scripture’s smirk had not diminished. “But that is why we need to keep the dear thing fed, isn’t it?”

The conversation between the two Abyssals carried on as they ignored the woman curled in the corner of the room. Her body had seized up in terror, and she could only stare at them as they snapped back and forth, in some form of verbal fencing, seemingly oblivious to her continued existence. The terrible, glowing remnants of her husband, their three sons, and the four workers they’d hired for the farm stood motionless, also leaving her unacknowledged. The shades were nothing more than wasted, mindless reflections of the people they had once been - hungry ghosts, the empty remnants of the soul that devoured the blood and flesh of the living in an attempt to fill an endless void. 

The woman could not even tremble, her fear was so great. She barely breathed, hoping against hope that the two strangers who had invaded her home had forgotten about her. 

“And if you didn’t insist on leaving those souls whole and infuriated,” said Curse, now allowing a tinge of annoyance into her voice, “you would not run that risk. What happens when your will fails?”

“You assume that it will.” 

“You assume that it will not, and I assure you, one of us will be proven incorrect sooner rather than later.” Curse’s lips twitched upward for a moment in what might have been a wry smile. “I sincerely doubt that it will be the one between us who understands necrotechnology and, Heaven forbid, statistics.” 

Scripture’s expression didn’t shift, but his arm jerked towards the woman. Not looking away from her, he forced it back with his other hand. It complied after a moment’s resistance. “Perhaps we should finish this later?”

“Fine.” Turning away from him, Curse gestured from the ghosts to the woman in the corner. The tendrils of her anima loosened their grip on the ghosts, and they turned. 

Scripture strolled out the door, satisfied with his work for the day, as Curse sat most politely on one of the chairs to watch as the woman was torn apart and devoured, screaming. When the ghosts had finished their grisly feast, she summoned the full might of her Essence, and a black, bleeding void formed a mark on her forehead - a circle with an empty lower half. The ghosts were crushed by necromantic will, and spun into delicate black thread. 

Curse wound the thread around a spool made of bone, carved with intricate runes. Then she too walked out the door into the darkness of the night. When she needed to, and not a moment before, she would bind Scripture’s arm with the thread again. Until such a time, the insufferable prick could occupy himself with keeping it under his control with willpower alone. She, not he, would be the judge of when that time would come. The Mask of Winters cared little for irresponsible or overconfident servants. Only perfection was acceptable.

==> Karkat: Receive an assignment 

Ligier examined the sickle that Karkat had been working on. His immortal eye could find countless imperfections, infinite and infinitesimal mistakes, but for a first attempt….

“An acceptable start,” he said, tossing it back to the troll. “You’ll learn more. In time. But for now you have other lessons to attend to.” 

Karkat raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his expression neutral. As much as he felt a horrible roil in his gut at the thought of being subservient to anyone now, there was another part of him that wanted nothing more than the demon smith’s approval. In some twisted way, he could understand why Light called him “Papa.” 

“You will not only be instructed in the ways of the forge, but the art of Sorcery. You will learn the names and ways of every demon in Malfeas. You will realize your power and be taught how to harness it. And, for the last and least if I have any say in it, you will learn dance and music.”

Karkat’s normally voluminously expressive voice was flat with disbelief. “Dance. And music.” 

“Yes, little mimic.” Ligier turned away from him, scanning the city below. 

“I’m going to ask the blatantly obvious question then, since you seem to insist on treating me like a wriggler: why?” 

Ligier beckoned him to the tower’s parapet with the simple motion of his finger. “Look down there, boy. What do you see?”

The troll could see a massive procession, like a mobile festival. Had he been more familiar with Earth and human holidays, he might have been able to compare it to Mardi Gras. As it was, it looked simply to him like a seething horde of demons, dancing madly down the streets and cavorting. In the center of it all was a tall, lithe figure, with skin of purest, gleaming brass, and no clothes save a simple loincloth. 

“That,” growled Ligier, “is the Brass Dancer. He and I are of the same; we two are Malfeas, whose body this world is.” 

Karkat frowned. That didn’t seem possible, and yet he was unable to deny it. 

“You question it,” Ligier observed. “But you know the truth. We are among the souls of the True King of All Kings, and I am privileged to be his heart. The sun that illuminates this wretched prison is me, and I am it.” 

Looking up, the troll glanced between his instructor and the green orb that cast its ghastly hue down upon the city below. Once again, it didn’t seem possible, and yet there was no escaping the truth of it. 

“What does this have to do with me learning how to prance around like a spasming antlerbeast?” 

“When you arrived here, you felt the quakes, yes? The black earth and red buildings crumbling as the world shifted?” 

Karkat was silent. 

“That was the pain of Malfeas. Torn asunder and inverted in body and soul, made into a prison, he... I… _we_ writhe in torment. But when that manifestation of he and I,” Ligier spat, gesturing back towards the brass man, “dances, little else matters and the pain is dulled. So against my own judgment, you shall learn from him as well. Though it sickens me to see the time of a Green Sun Prince wasted.” 

A thought struck Karkat. “You keep calling me a Prince,” he said. “Shouldn’t my lessons involve learning how to, I don’t know, actually rule?” 

Ligier snorted. “You are Chosen by both Malfeas, King of All, and She Who Lives in Her Name, the Principle of Hierarchy. Rulership, proper rulership, shall come naturally to you. It is part of your being now.” 

Light, content for the moment to merely observe, grinned like the infuriating little animal she was. She kept her hands very, very carefully behind her back. Karkat could already tell this was her “I’m going to mess with you later” pose. Still not comfortable with his new attire, the troll shifted. The kilt alone would take a lot of getting used to, but at least it didn’t feel too hot here. Or too cold, for that matter. 

The Green Sun sniffed. “You seem content to sit back,” he said, looking sidelong at the troll. 

“Thinking,” said Karkat, in an uncharacteristic moment of terseness. And it was true. He was thinking. His body - no, his soul - _ached_ with the need to do more than listen and learn. He had to do something. Run. Shout. Be recognized as His Majesty. The blood in his veins, so hated before, then ignored as irrelevant, burned with a green fire that told him even Her Imperious Condescension wouldn’t dare to touch him now. And simmering behind it all was rage, his famous rage. Before it had been a joke, even regarded by some few as charming. But now, it was truly _his_ , and he could wield it like an executioner’s axe or slave driver’s lash. Some small part of him, feeling distant and alone, was horrified to know that it felt _good_. It was drowned out by a halo of brass and glowing green in his mind. Before, he might have been comparable to a shaken can of soda. Unpleasant, at worst. With this newfound power, he was a dormant volcano. Idly, he wondered if his Exaltation came with the ability to breathe a caustic spray of fire. Melting faces sounded like _fun_. 

Ligier noted the troll’s hands clenching and unclenching, seemingly automatically. He smiled - at once a terrible and beautiful thing to behold. “Eager to do things yourself, are you?” 

“Yes,” Karkat hissed. 

“Good. Good. Enthusiasm will be rewarded,” said Ligier. He handed Karkat a wrought brass key. “There’s a little village that could use a new lord. Perhaps it’s time for you to stretch after resting for so long.” 

Karkat looked at the key. “Lord?” he wondered out loud. “Why stop there?” Why indeed? He was Karkat _Motherfucking_ Vantas. Green Sun Prince. Chosen of the King of All and the Principle of Hierarchy. “Why stop at lordship? Why even stop at kingship?” He grinned in a display of sick bravado and ego. “I could rule those puny people as a god right now.” He laughed: a short bark that was half-mad with power. “And I’m just beginning. I’m just _beginning_.” 

Ligier’s smile grew. He folded his arms with something that could be said to be pride. “The key will take you to a small outpost a few hours’ walk from the village. I look forward to your handiwork, apprentice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS  
> FIC  
> LIIIIIIIIIIIIIVES
> 
> Yeah, I'm back. I have more! And there's so much in this chapter. In retrospect maybe I should have trimmed it down a bit but I didn't want to spend more than two chapters covering where people had been and what they were doing. We still have a little catching up to do but it's mostly done now. 
> 
> More exposition with John up in the north. I like writing for him, but man, does having to explain so many things start to drag. Hopefully I've got all the bases covered now. And Whitewall itself is a really cool bit of the setting, so it's actually taking a lot of restraint to not just dump a bunch of exposition about the city itself and how it functions, how everything else functions... yeah. SO MUCH COOL STUFF YOU GUYS. 
> 
> I keep having difficulty writing the segments with Tavros and Dave. Partly I think it's my own fault since that part of the story isn't as detailed in my plans, but also partly I think it's because I don't really have a good handle on their characters. That said, this segment was fun once I actually got it going. I seem to have a tendency to give them fight scenes, but then, since Tavros is a Dawn and Dave is, well, Dave, there's not a lot more in terms of options. Before you say it, yes, there is a rap battle coming up. Creation is not a setting that lends itself to them in many places but I have, I think, managed to find a place to put one in. 
> 
> Jane's segment was tough to pace for me. See, I love stealth games, but writing out stealth missions tends to translate very poorly in just text. And tabletop games, for that matter. That said, I tried to keep up the tension, so I hope it worked. I also wrote the vast majority of this section while listening to bits of the Thief soundtrack. Given that I actually put a carbon-copy of Garrett into the fic, this should surprise no one. The neat thing about Jane's approach to this is she's staying as far out of the law's reach as she can - in other words, she's doing everything in her power to keep her excursions legal, at least by the Dogma. A few smartass lawyers might be able to make a case, but then, that's why she has a smarterass lawyer on her side.
> 
> Oh dear sweet gods of the internet I hope the formatting in Coshell's section worked. But yes. Sidereals don't have a lot of luck here, do they? It's not like I foreshadowed that at all at the beginning... :3
> 
> For those wondering, yes, Scripture's arm thing is a reference. You probably know what that reference is. It's only going to get more explicit as we go on, so don't worry if you don't get it right away. 
> 
> As much as I hate them, I do enjoy writing really scummy villains. Hey, it's more satisfying when some hero punches their face in. 
> 
> Aaaaaaand more fun with Karkat and Ligier. Yes, Ligier's distaste for the Brass Dancer is canon. The guy's a professional. He really doesn't care for such frivolity. Better to be plotting the utter destruction of his enemies, or nursing his grudge in other ways! Dancing is silly. 
> 
> Ah, Karkat. Nice to see the demon-power isn't going to your head.
> 
>  
> 
> So, in non-chapter news, not only is this well over 3000 hits, but I got a fic recommendation from the Exalted page on TV Tropes. So uh. Wow. Thanks guys. Definitely staggering that so many people like my work, and very flattering. I promise I won't let it all go to my head. 
> 
> (Not for long, anyway....)


	17. World-Weathering Incandescence

Once, there was a maiden who screamed in rage  
Her voice became gouts of flame  
And her blood boiled over in her veins  
Even her lungs burned with her vehemence  
Until she could only breathe when she had something to hate  
She commanded her friends as soldiers  
And they failed to serve  
When she lashed them with her angry words  
The stars died around them  
“Fury brings oblivion,” she said.

 

==> Karkat: Rule these worthless humans 

In the burning eyes of the sunset, a voice rang out over the village. 

“Attention, worthless humans!” it shouted. “This is your new _god_ speaking.” 

Karkat paused for emphasis. 

“It is a wrathful god who despises you more than you could possibly have dared to fear or hope for! I have watched the history of your entire pathetic world unfold. I have observed your kind while you would quake and tremble before your betters in personal prayers of shame!” 

His voice had grown stronger with each syllable, and now it was in full furor, nearly igniting the air as he strode, unbothered by the chill twilight breezes, to the people who had begun to gather in the square. 

“You may plead forgiveness for being such wretched failures, unknowing of your proper place in the order of this world. Perhaps if you prostrate yourselves before me instead of the stupid and false gods you have scribbled on the walls of your homes, I may forgive you! But prayers to your bogus deities will be unanswered! There are no miracles in store for you!” 

Standing before the assembled, if somewhat underwhelming, mass of mortals, Karkat raised his hands and his body blazed with viridian flame. His eyes reflected brass and alabaster in the sickly green glow. 

“There is only,” he snarled, low and menacing, “my hate.”

A column of cuprous fire erupted from his body, showering the village square with sparks. 

“This hate is one so pure and hot it would consume your tiny, sad minds to even begin to fathom! Ten thousand legions of ten thousand demons could not put it into song! My hate comes from the true creators of your world and it will surely destroy it as my judgment passes amongst your feeble kind! In my left hand I hold your lives, and with the hatred in my right I will cast down cities larger than you can comprehend! My hate can make you and unmake you! So kneel! Kneel before your true god, mortals! For mine is the hate that is your lifeblood and the lifeblood of your world.”

His voice dropped from a roar to a mere shout as he crossed his arms. 

“You’re welcome for that, by the way. You ungrateful pieces of shit.” 

A lone figure jostled its way through the wide-eyed crowd. Coming to the forefront, it waved cheerily at the demonic would-be emperor. 

“Hi Karkat!” said John. 

Karkat stopped dead, his imperious fury deflated. His left eye twitched briefly. 

“Egbert,” he choked. “Egbert, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

 

==> Sollux: Do what you do best 

Sollux grumbled. 

Despite the fantastical view, he grumbled. 

Four days of hiking through the Wyld, and he was sick of vistas that were terrible or beautiful beyond imagining. Or both. He had seen fields of skulls in all shapes, blooming like flowers. Mountains of gold and jewels, forming the bones of a great beast. A castle of pure ice, built completely upside-down. A house for travelers, carved into a behemoth’s still-beating heart. 

The troll suspected he had only been spared going totally insane because he was too busy grumbling to focus on the non-Euclidean horizons and bizarre landmarks. As for everything else, he had the heavy, ankle-length coat their companion had sewn for him. It enveloped him in earthy brown weave, highlighted with rich, dark greens. At his refusal to remove his glasses, the tailor had grinned and designed something he claimed would complement the lenses. Occasionally, the green of the coat would glint gold. Supposedly, this meant that it was working.

Aradia’s coat, by contrast, was translucent. Caenbaehr had theatrically swooned and declared he would sooner die than cover robes of such finery. So instead, he had endeavored to accentuate them, to make the play of light over them even more playful. The threads were almost crystalline, and Sollux honestly couldn’t tell where one began and where it ended. As she moved, it would disappear to leave the crimson of her God Tier robes, or cover her in scintillating colors. Despite the dazzle of it all, it was never overwhelming. It almost felt alive, like it responded to whoever was gazing at it. 

Unlike the previous days, this time Sollux had actual reason to grumble. They had arrived in the Goblin Bazaar - having wound their way through impossible thickets into a set of massive, twined trees - to find a veritable storm of activity, and a cacophony of voices that made the troll wish for the comparative silence of the soon-to-die. The vast array of scents and sounds and colors made his skull feel like a vise was clamped around it. Caenbaehr was evidently having no such difficulty. The raksha was as close to being in his element as he could without having a needle and thread in hand. Sollux kept a wary eye on him, just in case he suddenly burst into song. The last thing he and his headache needed was a full musical number with chorus and backup singers. 

For his part, Caenbaehr swept from market stall to market stall, swimming through the crowds and making small exchanges here and there. Aradia and Sollux followed close behind, the former snacking on one of several fruit she had commanded to grow at their last rest stop. Watching the plant bloom and grow in mere moments the first time she had tried it had been a humbling experience for Sollux. Even more humbling had been attempting it himself and disintegrating the stalk Aradia had grown. It had been another reason to grumble that day. From that point forward, she had been the only one to grow their extra supplies. It was for the best, according to their guide. “One must always be careful of the food one is offered out here, especially by my kind,” he had said. “Implicit agreements are but one of many ways my kin like to trick others into serving them.” 

It was for similar reasons that the raksha had insisted on conducting all business here in the market himself. As he darted between the stalls, Sollux watched in silence as he animatedly exchanged gossip, only rarely pulling out a few coins. At the end of a long string of apparent deals, Caenbaehr turned to them and smiled. 

 

“Follow me, my dear charges,” he said. “I’ve found a place for us to stay the night.”

He led them to a small hollow in the interwoven branches, barred by a thick door that looked as though it had been baked from clay. The raksha knocked, rapping his knuckles firmly against the door with a most unexpected sound: the door seemed to chime faintly at his touch. With the grating of stone, a hatch slid aside. 

Caenbaehr swept low into a bow. “A guide from the deeper Wylds,” he said, “and his charges. Humbly here at the behest of Milady Green by her terms with Prince Japthia and Feather-Weaver Lakasana. 

The hatch slid back into place, and the door creaked open. 

Inside, the shelter was dimly lit and filled with smoke. Dark tapestries, showing birds and spiders and other, more fantastical beasts, blocked out the light from outside. A faint haze clouded every visible corner, of which there were many. Little booths and pockets of space formed an orbital ring around the central chamber. People of various shapes and sizes - some even recognizably human, though there were still no trolls to be found - reclined on couches and benches of living wood, smoking from long pipes connected to myconid hookahs or drinking liquor that fairly well shined against the gloom. Tables were set up, or rather grown, in the center of the array. Foods of various kinds were lavishly laid upon them, and some of the guests were eating. To his private delight, Sollux could see among the fruits and dried meats that there were candied insects of many kinds - most likely preserved in honey. Throughout the den, lazy, sensual music drifted. Compared to the harps and other odd instruments they had seen, these were practically mundane, and Sollux recognized the low, brassy sound of a trumpet amongst the low thrumming and soft percussion. The musicians themselves were set up not far from the bar, playing with such heavy emotion that they seemed burdened by their instruments. Their dark clothing was a stark contrast to the crimson curtain behind them.

As they were seated by an immaculately-dressed human man, his neck tattooed around with a pattern of leaves and ivy, a woman in possibly the most revealing dress Sollux and Aradia had ever seen stepped out from behind the curtain. She walked like a slave, with her footsteps dragging, but her head remained high and her gaze steady. The tumultuous tresses of her hair practically sparkled, even in the dingy light of the den. Without a cue, she began to sing. 

It was in a language that neither of the trolls knew, but it sounded vaguely like what the humans called French. Every note ached with sorrow and pain, but never did the singer’s voice falter. Instead, it only grew stronger as the song went on, and though they couldn’t understand the words, they felt its meaning in every breath, every syllable, every slight tremble of the woman’s smoky voice. She longed to be free of this place, but she could not leave without her lover, who was nowhere to be found. Despite her fears of abandonment, she would sing until her voice withered and died, because that was how they had met. Such was the conviction and passion she sang with that even Sollux felt his eyes beginning to mist over. 

“Marvelous, is she not?” whispered Caenbaehr. “One of the finest, even by my people’s lofty standards. The original master of this Bazaar decided he simply had to have her. Once, she sang for thousands. Now she is here. It is better that way, I think. One must be in such ambiance to truly feel her song.” 

As the song concluded, marked by a single, beautifully held contralto note, and smouldering applause broke out in the bar, the raksha continued. “She has sung that song each night for over six hundred years.” He smiled, looking rather predatory, apparently not seeing the confused looks the trolls gave him. “Never have I heard it become any less passionate. Each night she goes to bed, you see, she forgets the previous day. For her, it is as though she was abducted only yesterday.”

Aradia’s face went stony. “Abducted?”

“As is the way of things. Such a beauty must be stolen, else it is not earned. Is it not so in all of your stories? And her valiant lover did indeed ride after.”

“What happened to him?” asked Aradia, dreading the answer. 

“You’ve met him. He seated us. When he arrived, he found himself on the losing end of a wager. But he offered his soul in place of his darling’s captivity, and so touched was the lord of the Bazaar that he let them both stay together.” Sniffing appreciatively at the smoke, Caenbaehr leaned back in his seat. “Of course, since the man had broken several laws, he couldn’t be left to go free without penalty. So he stays here, serving, cursed - or blessed - to know his mission but not his love’s face until her voice can make him remember. A most delicious irony, is it not?”

Sollux shifted in his seat, trying not to grind his teeth too loudly. 

“But that is, of course, a very different story from yours.” The raksha plucked a grape from the platter on their table and popped it in his mouth with a perfect air of nonchalance. “I would personally wager he remembers in… oh, I give it a year and a day.”

“Out of six hundred?” muttered Aradia to her friend. 

“Now then, friends, I have arranged our entry here, but we must discuss the terms of a night’s stay.” 

Sollux stopped halfway to picking up a caramelized grasshopper of some kind. “Hold on,” he growled. “I thought you thaid we had a plathe for the night.” 

“Mostly true, mostly true. The owners of this establishment keep it quite… secure, in many ways,” explained Caenbaehr. “And the cost of such security is that all lodgers must pay a toll of some kind.” 

“... and we don’t have any money,” concluded Sollux, now eyeing the crimson curtain with some unease. 

“Fortunately, I know that trades are easily made. Especially when you’re acting on behalf of someone greater.” Noticing that neither of them had actually taken a bite of anything yet, the fey tailor gestured at the plates. “Go ahead, it’s perfectly fine. On my oath. Try the carpenter ants, they’re quite well-seasoned.”

“Maybe we thould wait until you tell uth what our toll is.” Sollux, under the table, began to roll up the sleeves of his robe. 

“Well, that is… difficult,” replied Caenbaehr. “You see, old Lakasana likes to make it personal. She always asks something different, never money - it’s not much use to us, of course - but always a bit of a price….” 

“Okay, the ominouth theatricth are getting really boring.” Sollux kept his hands hidden from sight, ready to attack if necessary. “Out with it.” 

“She’ll want to speak to the both of you. Frankly, it was difficult enough to get her to agree to my being present when she did, so we must count our good fortunes.”

“And this, ah, interview would be… when, exactly?” asked Aradia. 

“After you have had your fill here,” said Caenbaehr. “The food and entry is paid for, like I said. Beds for the night, however….” 

It was at that moment that another of the guests interrupted. He was a short, wrinkly little man, with the look of someone who had fallen into a tanner’s vat in the middle of the dyeing process. Even in the darkness, he squinted. “These are yours?” he said, without preamble. He gestured towards Sollux and Aradia. 

“They are my charges, yes,” the tailor answered. 

“I want them. I’ll buy them. Name your price.” The man’s voice showed his age - not quite hoarse, but on the edge, as though he had stopped one cigarette short of throat cancer. More than that, it seemed tired. 

“I believe you have made certain assumptions, sir. They have no price.”

“A million. Two million. It’s not that big a deal for a guy like me to spend two million on these. I’ve got connections. Some of the best connections.” 

Sollux noticed a very slight twitch in Caenbaehr’s thumb as he settled his hand over a juicy peach. The raksha sighed heavily. “I will not sell to you, _sir_.” Caenbaehr managed to poison the word “sir” as viciously as someone could, short of pronouncing it as “cur.” “Leave.” 

“You’re going to regret this,” said the man, in the same steady cadence. “A big guy like me? I get what I want.” 

The bored sarcasm in Caenbaehr’s voice could have cut twine. “Oh dear,” he deadpanned. “No one has ever said something like that to me before. Not in over a thousand years.” 

“You’re nasty is what you are,” said the man, rummaging for something in his coat. “Leading me on like that.” 

Silently, all three of the people seated came to a consensus: _if he makes one wrong move…._

Fortunately for them, they were saved by the reappearance of the ivy-tattooed man. “Honored guests,” he said, ignoring the shriveled little man, “the Feather-Weaver has the time to speak with you now.” 

“Ah, excellent.” With a flourish, Caenbaehr stood and tossed the peach upwards. With blinding speed, he snapped it out of the air and seemed to swallow it whole. A small dribble of juice ran down his chin, which he daintily wiped away. “Let us be off.” 

As Sollux and Aradia got up and went to follow, they heard a strange clicking sound behind them. All noise in the bar stopped. Sollux didn’t need to turn around to know that everyone there was now watching them, and the impotently furious little man. 

Slowly, he took a deep breath, shook his hands out of his sleeves with the conviction of a man pumping a shotgun, and turned. 

The man had withdrawn two collars from under his cloak. The outsides seemed to be normal bands of thin gold, just heavy enough to remind whoever was hapless enough to have them forced on that they would remain. The insides, however, glittered with a strange malevolence that Sollux found ever-so-slightly familiar. The silvery inner edge shifted in the dim light, almost like the weaving of countless insectoid legs. More than ever before, he found himself gritting his teeth. He could feel his tough skin prickling just looking at the objects. 

Aradia had also turned, hand resting lightly on her hip. Her companion could feel the slight tingle in the air that he recalled preceding her newfound growth abilities. Behind his lenses, he eyed the man, who had frozen, caught before he could do… whatever he had planned to do. 

Caenbaehr, on the other hand, had not turned. Instead, he had stopped on the spot. He tutted. “I’m very disappointed,” he said. “Which is rather novel. I’ve met you before, sir. Several times. Not once did you impress me, _sir_ , but I did think you smarter than this.” 

Suddenly ,the raksha wheeled, his cloak flaring up and in front of his face, only to drop and reveal a horrible parody of a smile. Through his shining, gritted teeth, Caenbaehr hissed, “now, do prove me wrong and put those slave collars away. _Sir_.” 

“I don’t-” The man shrieked and the collars dropped as Sollux let loose a small spark. Before he could scramble for the dropped items, a root from the floor reached up and very conspicuously latched itself around his wrist. Caenbaehr stopped the rolling of the runaway collars with the barest movement of his foot. Briefly, he cast a glance downward at them.

“First Age collars. What delightfully hideous things,” he remarked. “I do wonder where you got them.” 

“A loan. A small loan. Nothing-” The man shrieked again. Sollux suppressed a satisfied chuckle. 

“You are, of course, aware that _using_ these on someone in this establishment is strictly forbidden. I would dearly hope you hadn’t planned on it.”

The man snorted. “I have enough money to buy out this whole bazaar. You people are nothing.” 

“You have _failed_. If we are nothing, then you are far less. Aradia, dear, release him. We don’t want to be late.” 

A brief struggle broke out on her face. One one side: her desire to make a good impression and not disturb the peace overmuch. On the other: the gut feeling that releasing the man would solve little, or even encourage him in some perverse way. Eventually, she gritted her teeth and lowered her hand. The root uncoiled and returned to its place. 

“Now then, we should go,” said Caenbaehr, turning, “and leave this pitiably _small_ man to his own devices.” With no more thought than one would apply to swatting a gnat, he kicked the collars back across the floor to the man’s feet.

The trolls turned away. Something inside the man snapped. 

With a sound like the pressing of a hypodermic needle under skin, Caenbaehr promptly whirled again, his face unchanged. The man, who had lunged forward with the collars aimed for Sollux and Aradia’s necks, hung in midair. He had frozen, seemingly caught in time, his face contorting in agony. Only the barest glimmer of light showed that he had been caught by hundreds - possibly thousands - of nigh-invisible threads. Each one had anchored to a different point on his clothing or exposed skin. 

“Well,” said a new voice from behind the bar. “I sensed some trouble, but I am most pleased to see that you have it well in hand. It’s been far too long, Tailor-Man.” 

“Ah, Feather-Weaver,” Caenbaehr said, not moving. “I apologize. It seems one of your guests got unruly with my charges.” 

“Your restraint is admirable,” came the reply. An angular woman strode into view, with hair that shone like peacock feathers and eyes like a hunting hawk’s. She bore no smile, despite the amusement in her voice. 

“I remembered how you liked to punish troublemakers yourself.” 

“Indeed. This time, however, I notice you have a new audience. And since this rather insignificant man is the one who lashed out at you, I give you full rights to his punishment.”

Both Sollux and Aradia would remember the smile on Caenbaehr’s face for a very, very long time. It reminded them of Vriska’s when one of her plans succeeded, but with a colder viciousness to it - the kind of cruel delight cultivated by hundreds of years of practice and boredom. 

Silently, he stalked up to the still-paralyzed man. He extended a hand, almost gently and compassionately, taking up the man’s chin in his slender fingers. There was a brief moment of confusion in the man’s eyes, then they widened, wider than human eyes should ever naturally go, in stark terror. 

There was a strangled noise, as though a scream were being pushed through a sieve. Everyone present watched as the man’s body began to twist and spiral in on itself. It was like watching a cartoon, with a character being sucked through a straw, but in horrible, true clarity. There was no snapping of bone and tendon or rattling of displaced air, just the soft thunk of a spool of thread hitting the floor. 

Caenbaehr swept it up and tucked it into his cloak. “Rather low quality,” he remarked, “but it will do for something. Perhaps undergarments.” 

Everyone in the bar turned back to their business, as if nothing had happened. Before the group adjourned to the mysterious space behind the curtain, however, Sollux’s sharp eyes picked out a small metal glint against the woody floor. Surreptitiously, he snatched it up and examined it. 

It was a small amulet or necklace of some kind. A tarnished-looking coin, made of silver and some bone-white substance he couldn’t identify, hung on a similarly tarnished chain. One side depicted a skull, while the other bore a glyph similar to the ones he’d seen in Gaia’s temple. Frowning, at least slightly more so than usual, he secreted it away in a pocket. He could ask questions later. An interview awaited.

==> Linsang: Rendevous 

“Lunar activity?” Linsang leaned back against the wall of the office within the Crimson Panoply of Victory. It took all her skill not to visibly tense when mentioning the Children of Luna. 

Falling Stone Blade, her combat instructor and Chosen of Battles, nodded. “Dangerously close to the Blessed Isle,” he said. “Well, closer to Thorns than the Isle, but you know. Can’t be too careful.”

Linsang gave this due consideration. “Indeed, especially with an Immaculate monastery so close to… that city.” 

“There’s more,” said Stone. “We think this might be connected to Tanera’s death.”

“... I see.” Linsang’s training in the Forbidding Manse of Ivy had been extensive. Even so, she could not help but betray a slight strain on her voice. 

“Even worse, Coshell has gone too. He was-”

“-investigating Thorns.” 

“Yes.” 

“Damn.” Linsang closed her eyes. 

“I know. But you still have a duty to carry out.” As did he, though he had been working for Heaven far longer and had gotten used to losing allies. She found that sad, that his heart had been hardened so. Perhaps sadder still was that she herself would eventually fall victim to that fate as well. Even the Chosen of Serenity could not stave off the bittering of many years forever.

Linsang nodded, having forced herself away from her thoughts. “Tell me everything you can.”

Stone unfurled a map of Creation on his desk. This surprised Linsang not at all - his office was packed with all kinds of maps and information, most of it of some relevance to his duties in training other Sidereals for field operations. She only wondered where he had pulled it from. 

“We’ve had reports from various locations, but they all draw a line, roughly.” He indicated a point in the deeper forests of the East, then traced a line back towards the island in the center of the map. “And it goes right through Thorns.”

“So how are we supposed to find this Lunar?”

“You will start further East. I’ll start near Thorns. We’ll move towards each other. Simple enough.” 

“Yes… until something unexpected happens, which it always does. Doubly so for a Lunar being involved.”

“I’m aware. Still.” Stone looked Linsang dead in the eye. “Be careful. If this is the Lunar we think it is, then your own combat skills will be worthless.”

Linsang raised an eyebrow. While she favored subtlety, Stone had taught her much. Her martial prowess was far from lacking.

“A full detachment of Imperial soldiers. All gone. An Immaculate monastery burned to the ground. No fewer than a score of our own compatriots, slain. If this is who it appears to be… then this is one who survived the Usurpation.” 

Her heart skipped a beat and a chill ran up her spine. There were very, very few Chosen of Luna who had survived that bloody, ill-fated day. In fact, there were scarcely more of anything that could remember it. Chejop Kejak, her direct superior, was unique among the Sidereal Exalted for being the only one surviving of those who had planned it. The remainder of the eldest Sidereals had only Exalted just after. 

“It gets worse, I’m afraid,” continued Stone. “From what we can tell, this trailblazer of ours picked up a couple of new little sparks.”

“Fresh Lunars.” 

“Aye.” Stone unfurled another scroll, this one filled with detailed notes and charts taken within the Loom. “And very little about these unblooded Exalts makes sense. As far as the Loom is concerned, they only recently popped into existence. I have found no trace of them having lived as mortals save for a short time before they were blessed.” 

“That suggests to me that they were hidden.” 

“So I thought, until I made inquiries with the Forbidding Manse. Not even Jupiter herself has made comment.” The latter was hardly news; Jupiter could be infuriatingly tight-lipped, even for the highest god of secrets there could possibly be. 

“And your allies among the Fellowship?” 

“I can glean little. Even the best of them at reading the Loom has made negligible headway.” Stone huffed bitterly. “Not that he’s been given much chance to. Four new stars are rising, and he’s stuck with all of them.” 

“Then… then we can only act on what we have.” Which, Linsang added silently, amounted to vague information and their combined experience. Office politics were beginning to take their toll on the day-to-day operations of younger Sidereals. 

Stone nodded, solemnly. “Indeed. I suspect that our primary target will have given them some instruction in how to reach a greater gathering of the Pact, and will likely send them on their way soon. Elders rarely keep the company of fresh Exalts for long unless at some gathering… this one far less so.” 

“Then we are to locate this one, and then…?” 

“We report back as soon as we are able. If there are any truly dangerous plans being enacted, we stop them. But otherwise, we get a solid idea of location and heading, then get out.” 

Linsang paused. She had known Stone for many years, but even so, he had kept many elements of his personal life tucked away. It was only her long experience with the man, coupled with her uncanny perception of a person’s expressions, that let her know something about this was bothering him. Her mind picked up the jigsaw pieces she had been presented with and started putting them together.

“... you know this Lunar,” she concluded. 

Stone only gave her a stoic nod in reply. “Killed three of my pupils when we attempted to bring her down. Masters, all. Trained for decades. I barely escaped.” He indicated the long, pinkish lines of scar tissue that stretched from under his jaw down under his robes to his sternum. “It is appropriate that the color of Mars is red.” He gave her a nervous chuckle. “Would’ve ruined my color coordination otherwise.” 

The Chosen of Secrets, normally ever ready with an apropos remark, found herself unable to speak. A dread certainty began to sink in her belly like a pebble in the ocean. 

Stone looked at her with piercing eyes, stained red by the touch of Mars. “You know your duty. I know mine. It is time we fulfill it.”

Linsang could only nod before she turned to leave.

==> Dirk: Study 

Dirk had always used his glasses as a barrier, something to put between himself and other people. It amused him that they couldn’t tell where he was looking when talking to them.There had also been a practical reason to wear them, before he’d entered the game. Thousands of miles of surrounding ocean under a clear sky left a hell of a glare all around. Now, however, they served another purpose - they kept people from seeing the dark circles under his eyes. 

He hadn’t slept properly for days. At least, it had been days according to his phone’s clock. Bulwark called them “full shift rotations.” Every time he closed his eyes, images, feelings, voices… memories would rush into his mind. The first time he had tried to sleep, he’d spent what seemed like years watching another life unfold. He had woken up feeling empty, lost, not knowing who he was. 

That had been a bad day, to say the least.

Equius hadn’t noticed yet. He hadn’t had much of an opportunity to do so. They had both been assigned to basic repair work, the better to maintain their cover. It had been quietly decided amongst the group that Dirk’s newfound glowing should be kept out of the public eye until they understood exactly what had happened, so here he was: fixing broken pistons and re-aligning conveyors. 

It was simple, probably too simple, but it kept his mind off of other things. Ordinarily, his mind raced even when occupied, but the circumstances here demanded his full attention. It was almost refreshing. The first day, he had found that he was grasping new principles of engineering that he’d barely studied with expertise beyond his experience. In order to not raise suspicion, he’d had to slow himself down. Of course, in some cases, that hadn’t been hard. It was rapidly becoming clear that so many things were breaking because other things were still broken. More than half of the repair jobs Dirk had done were jury-rigs, patches, or temporary fixes without the proper materials. If the whispers of his fellow crew were any indication, this wasn’t anything new. In the few moments where he and Equius had been off-shift together, they had compared notes. It was the same all over: not enough materials, not enough time, not enough people, too much work. 

It was one of those brief moments of downtime now, and Dirk was fighting a duel with a metaphorical sandman. Ever since that first brush with the visions, he had begun trying to avoid sleep whenever possible.

He had cursed, thoroughly and extensively, with great attention to the details of parentage and probable insufficiencies thereof, whatever short-sighted god that had created this world for two days straight after discovering that there was no coffee to be found. 

Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, Dirk kept his focus on the wiring in front of him. He had taken a sample from a centuries-old building, cutting and re-splicing it in a spare moment. Even in his exhausted state, it had been easy, almost as if the building had permitted the intrusion, or even assisted him. The basic construction was familiar, but the materials, or at least some of them, were not. One in particular, a tiny filament of metal, glinted in the light like a rare treasure. It was always brief, but occasionally it would catch the dim light in a particular way and suddenly have a sheen in a full spectrum of colors. Not unlike a CD, Dirk mused to himself, as he tried to figure out what it was. 

_Starmetal,_ his brain supplied. 

_Thank you brain,_ he replied, deciding in his half-awake state that he may as well converse with something. 

_It’s being used to conduct Essence,_ his brain explained. _The only other magical material that’s better for it is orichalcum._

_Magical material?_ Dirk was intrigued. 

_Basically indestructible materials that are used in making items of great power._

_Indestructible? Then how did I cut the wire?_ His tools were mundane metal, and nobody had ever heard of a normal sword chipping Excalibur. 

_Purpose makes it strong. A sword should not break. Wires must be readjusted and altered._

_Huh. Makes sense._ After all, Excalibur’s edge had to be maintained somehow. Regular whetstones probably did the job just fine. 

_Starmetal often carries divine power and is connected with Fate. Here, it must be used to ensure power doesn’t fail, and it goes where it is needed._

_Interesting._

Dirk checked his phone. He had tried messaging anyone and everyone he could think of. Nothing. There were several possibilities as to why, and he’d gone over them so many times by now that it had become a mantra. Possibly a litany. 

He could be the only one with a working phone. It was only now occurring to him, sleep deprived as he was, to just ask Equius if he had anything. It could also be that he was the only one with a signal. Who knew if anyone else was here or within range? And both of those possibilities rested on two things: that his friends still had their various devices, and that those devices still had power. 

Even the most efficient cell phone would have lost power after five days. Right? Unless it had some kind of nuclear battery, and his decidedly did not. That would have ruined the whole “portability” thing. His phone, through the entire duration of his stay thus far, had not dipped below 80% battery. It was as though it sustained, or even recharged, itself in his presence. 

Self-charging phones. Sourceless wi-fi signals. Wires aligned with capital-F Fate. It was so much to process and probably too much to think about on five days of little-to-no sleep. 

Sleep…. 

Dirk jerked forward, rolling into a fighting crouch. 

Equius looked at him, clearly nonplussed.

“I. Um.” Dirk blinked. There had been things behind him, hadn’t there? Weapons, bearing down on his back. Sharp spikes, like huge needles of bone. 

Awkward silence reigned, like Arthur had tried to get the sword out of the stone and pulled out an oversized sex toy instead. Dirk desperately wished that someone would burst in and break the silence, but no such luck - they’d been bunked in a relatively private place. In Autochthonia, that meant that they only had to share the small room with four other people, all of whom had been vouchsafed as “trustworthy” by their Alchemical hosts. They were out at a local musical performance - patriotic anthems and the like - and thus wouldn’t be back for some time. 

“Are you…” Equius began, then coughed. “Are you feeling well? You haven’t slept much, as far I’ve seen.”

Dirk briefly contemplated lying, but reasoned that there wasn’t much point. The troll had just seen him catapult across the room, rolling like a video game character. There was nothing he could come up with to rationally explain that away.

“No,” he sighed. “I haven’t. Nightmares.”

There was a pause. Equius seemed to be trying to find the right words. When he finally spoke, it was in a strained voice. “Believe me when I say that I understand.” 

Dirk shot him a Look. It was more visible in his stance and the angle of his shoulders, but it was a Look nonetheless. 

Equius removed his own glasses. “Believe me,” he repeated. 

Dirk stared at the troll’s face. The bruise-colored bags under his eyes made a startling contrast to the yellow of his sclerae. 

“I always had a habit of falling asleep at the workbench instead of my recuperacoon. No sopor slime to calm the… visions.” He shook his head slowly. “If Nepeta… if I hadn’t known her, I shudder to think what I might have become.”

Dirk knew the feeling. “She kept you in line.” 

The troll gave him a half-chuckle. “Yes, I suppose that is accurate. While it annoyed me at the time, she did the right thing by actively defying me and my more… old-fashioned ideas.” 

“Huh.” The human fiddled absently with his phone. “I guess that makes sense.” 

“This place… I thought I had left caste systems behind. In the game, the hemospectrum became extraneous. Its purpose was moot. I accepted that. Well.” He shuffled. “Eventually. But here….”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Deep in thought, Dirk fingered the false gem stuck to his forehead. Everyone born in Autochthonia had a real one implanted, supposedly to contain their soul in its entirety after death. He wasn’t sure how much of that he believed. But even the Alchemicals had these soul gems, so they had to be important. Cut and shape showed what caste one belonged to, and theoretically it worked on the basis of social equality, with each caste taking different parts of the overall workload… but both of them knew that historically, things were very rarely so cut-and-dry. 

Everyone had a job to do, and supposedly they were born into their roles, even if there was evidence to the contrary. Even in their short stay, they had both already heard stories of a few who had been “erroneously” assigned a caste at birth. Populat workers did the manual labor, or managed those who did, the Lumpen were the criminals and castoffs sentenced to harder labor, the Olgotary made and enforced the laws, Theomarchs guided the others in matters of dogma, and the members of the mysterious Sodalities held some kind of scientific knowledge the rest weren’t permitted to. 

“I am decidedly unsure how I feel about it,” said Equius. 

“Doesn’t feel right, does it?”

“In any other case, I might agree, but here….” The troll trailed off, as he put his glasses back on. “Here, it seems rather necessary. Caste as a way to prevent anarchy I can understand, even if I no longer have the taste for it, but caste as a necessity seems limiting. Wasteful.”

Dirk nodded. “Why stick someone in a job unless there’s no other choice?”

“Yes, choice. That, I suppose, is what it boils down to.” 

“Having it or not.” 

“Indeed.” The troll looked deeply pensive for a moment, before he straightened up. “I think I shall take a walk. Something to clear my head, at least as much as it can be with all the noise.”

The constant chugging of motors and clanging of pistons had become white noise to Dirk, but he was starting to wonder how much of it he could take. He gave the troll a simple wave, wishing him silently well. 

As he returned to the bunk, to examine the starmetal wire some more, he felt his phone buzz. 

Scrambling, uncaring about his dignity or how someone might perceive it, he practically tore it out of his pocket. 

Dirk froze. 

Sitting on the screen was a single message.

Hello again, Dirk. It’s nice to have found you. I’ve made some interesting discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have an update! Not to worry, the next chapter will come out relatively quickly, which should hopefully set a pace I can keep up with.
> 
> Look, you knew it was coming. Don't tell me you didn't see it. There was no way it couldn't happen. It's simply too good of a setup to waste. So yes. ALL the callbacks to the source material. I was laughing to myself the entire time I wrote that passage. 
> 
> Finally, I get to do some stuff with Sollux and Aradia that's more interesting than plot exposition! Yes, the Goblin Bazaar they are visiting is a real place in Exalted canon. The bar, however, is my own creation. I struggled for a bit to come up with a proper presentation for the place, and eventually settled on "speakeasy" style. The music is meant to be the background track from Rodin's bar in Bayonetta. I'm proud of a few of the descriptors here, especially with how the man's voice is "one cigarette short of throat cancer." Additionally, I had to really struggle to figure out what Sollux's new outfit would look like. I eventually looked at World of Warcraft Shaman gear for inspiration, and honestly I can't tell you why I did. That said, I think it works. 
> 
> Before anyone asks, no, Falling Stone Blade wasn't named as a reference to the popular RPG trope of "rocks fall, everyone dies." At least not intentionally. That said, I'll roll with it. Why the hell not? Meanwhile, we get a bit of insight into the Usurpation and it's long-reaching aftereffects. I wish I had a better opportunity to use Chejop Kejak right now, but he doesn't quite fit into the framework that I have. I'm sure I'll find some way to do it at some point, though. He's a very interesting character. 
> 
> The Autochthonia section has some of my better imagery, I think. You can probably guess which one I liked best. Any time you can get yourself to laugh, it's probably a good sentence. 
> 
> ... probably. 
> 
> Anywho, Autochthonia is probably the part of the setting that requires me to do the most building for people unfamiliar with Exalted. It's so different from Creation, but in ways that rely on knowledge of the setting, that it's hard to do it without doing a massive infodump that people will get lost in. That said, since we have people who are totally new to it, it lets me exposit in a way that might be more natural than I could do otherwise. And it also leaves room for some interesting... misconceptions on the part of the people doing the expositing. 
> 
> Finally: MU HA HA HA HA HA. I've been waiting for that last twist for ages!


	18. Blue Vervain Binding

==> Roxy: Exalt 

Night had fallen over Whitewall. The food left outside the bedroom door lay untouched. Roxy had slumped over her desk, having worked non-stop with needle and thread. She had only stepped out to purchase the finest ones she could find, hoping that they would be enough. Her fervor had paid off - the banner itself was nearly repaired. Only a few details remained to be seen to. Her brain, pushed beyond exhaustion, had decided for her that they could wait. Sleep beckoned with its inexorable hands. 

So, Roxy slept. And she dreamed.

In the dream, she could feel a soundless song. It thrummed through her being, wordless and yet filled with every word ever spoken. Overhead, the sky twinkled with countless stars, each with countless more threads between them. She could trace pictures between them, images, omens, meanings, small stories. The notes of the song danced between the threads, the lines forming scales and arpeggios. 

On her balcony, legs dangling over the sea, Roxy watched them. She sighed, content for the first time in what seemed like years. 

Five constellations began to glow with a faint cerulean light. The lines connecting them lit up, like neon signs in a rainy street. Around these simple lines, full pictures drew themselves. The five became a ring, glittering in the sky above her. Each one whispered its name to her, as gently as a lover’s sweet nothings: The Ewer, The Lovers, The Musician, The Peacock, The Pillar. With each name came ancient knowledge, great power, and terrible responsibility. The five charted her a path through the stars, showing the warp and weft of destiny, teaching her how the two were inextricably intertwined. This, they told her, was her world, her dance. 

The stars descended, and carried her away into a sky full of possibility. She strode among the clouds, watching the stars play out their own stories. From these, she learned how to walk amongst them, to be a part of the world as much as it was part of her. The shadows made puppet shows, and she watched as the dead marched on the dead. Sunlight flickered, interspersed with silver of the moon and darkest shadows. A green flame pierced the horizon, and spiders wearing chains crawled into chasms. A golden storm, roaring like a bull, charged from the north into a pit ringed by briars. A skull drifted among the waves of a scintillating ocean, sometimes dyed green, other times red. As one star fell, another rose, bearing her upwards. The lights below faded, and blazed anew overhead as she met them. 

As she kept walking, she could see that the stars became a vortex, swirling in the distance. A mysterious figure waited for her in the center of it, and as Roxy drew closer she could see that it was a woman, clad in a gown of blue silk, beautiful beyond all imagining. The woman met her gaze and beckoned her closer. 

Roxy parted the vortex of stars like a beaded curtain, and she could see the inviting curves of the woman’s body, the pleased quirk of her lips, the joyous light in her eyes. Threads like spider silk dangled from her gown. 

Leaning back and sitting on the weave of the threads like the bed in a bower, the woman took Roxy’s hand. With a smile, she extended a delicate finger and drew in the air with lines of blue light. She formed a perfect circle, with a cross connected underneath. 

Roxy opened her hand, even if she didn’t know quite why, and the woman smiled. She took the sign in her own hands, and placed it gently in Roxy’s. She curled Roxy’s fingers for her around the sigil, and it drew into her as it became light. It was warm, comforting, and easy, like being bundled up in an old quilt with a mug of hot chocolate. 

Roxy looked up into the woman’s eyes, and the gaze that met hers told her what the light was. 

A gift.

A power. 

A burden. 

A duty. 

Serenity. 

When Roxy awoke, she did so slowly, as she always had. Despite her less-than-comfortable conditions, she felt as though she had spent the night in a rich bed, caressed by the lovely woman. She stood up, and her eyes reflected the stars. 

Once again, she set to work, her hands steady with the conviction of a constellation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exaltatiooooooooooon! *sick guitar solo*
> 
> Welcome to the club, Roxy! The "you've got kickass powers but life is going to suck because great power yadda yadda" club. 
> 
> And yes, if the phrasing seems familiar, that is definitely on purpose. The Maidens like patterns.


	19. Clear Water Prana

==> Reshiava: Approach 

It was a cleverly hidden little base, and she reluctantly admitted to herself that the Dragon-Bloods had done well, for not-quite-Exalts and usurpers. Scouts would have a very difficult time indeed finding the place. Even taking the shape of one of the less conspicuous birds she had hunted over her long life and flying overhead had not revealed it. It had taken hours upon hours of patient searching, following her nose, and the tiniest of tell-tale signs, to uncover its location. 

From the looks of things, they were planning to join up with a much, much bigger force. The missive she had “intercepted” referred to a city called Thorns. She didn’t know which city it was or why it was important, but if there were going to be a lot of Dragon-Bloods there, then perhaps it might be interesting. It would provide something to do over the next few days, at least. 

Even miles away, her sharp hearing could pick out conversations. She had been listening for hours, with the steady patience of a spider. Nothing surprised her, until…. 

“Look, if what everyone says about the place is true, I don’t know how the Dragons intend for us to take the place,” said a soldier, sitting at a cooking fire. 

“You know rumors,” said another. “Only half of it is true at all, and even then it’s still only half-true.”

A third quoted some scripture that Reshiava tuned out. It was boring and pointless, much like the person quoting it. 

“Alright, alright,” said the first soldier, “but my uncle was _there_ when the place got attacked. Said he saw a huge walking fortress.” 

Reshiava’s ears twitched. 

“And,” the soldier continued, “after barely escaping with his life, he did some reading. Said it was the legendary Juggernaut.”

A round of raucous laughter broke out.   
“I”m serious!” protested the soldier. 

“Of course you are,” said the second, condescendingly. “Juggernaut! Can’t die, can’t be killed, so it just takes over a city because some mad old ghost in a mask asked it to.” 

A low purr issued from Reshiava’s throat. She didn’t notice. She was too busy fixating on the description of this new beast. Yes, something in her memory stirred. Long ago, long before this cursed age, before she had discovered her ultimate thrill, one of her associates had battled such a beast. The Slayer of Nations, it had been called. But it had been thought dead, brought low by the works of the Lawgivers. If it were still alive, then…

… then it would be a truly glorious hunt. 

The story went that Juggernaut, the Maker of Rubble, could only die on his destined day. That moment over a thousand years ago, Reshiava reasoned, must not have been it. What better thrill than something big enough to carry a citadel on its back, what greater danger? 

“Alright, either way,” continued the first soldier, “we still have to take back Thorns from a giant walking corpse. How are we supposed to manage that?”

“That, young recruit,” replied a different voice, grizzled by experience, “is for the officers to figure out. We’ll just throw ourselves on whatever blades they ask us to.” There was a pause. “For the good of the Empire, of course.” 

“Won’t take much to convince me we’re doing the right thing,” said the second soldier. “Ancestor-worshipping heathens let this happen, and I’ll be damned if I let their cults ruin Creation.” 

“Yes, yes, you’ve said so many times. All I wonder is who’s commanding us….” 

“What, you’ve forgotten our officer’s name already?” More laughter. 

“No, I mean the general. The mastermind. It’s not old Tepet Arada - he’s still off on leave, isn’t he?”

“Hah! Last I heard, pup, the old man was coming back to the Isle to have words with his granddaughter.” 

Reshiava began to ignore the conversation. It had strayed from anything relevant to her. Yes. Thorns. She would have to find Thorns. Juggernaut was waiting for her. 

==> Caenbaehr: Negotiate 

The office of Feather-Weaver Lakasana was lavishly decorated with furniture that, while mostly defying easy description, was all of obvious great value. Some pieces resembled modern art sculptures, twisting and writhing as solid shapes in materials that Sollux couldn’t even begin to name. Others were small statuettes, carved in detail far too intricate for human hands. Others still were tapestries, blankets, cushions, and rugs, softer than silk and finer than cashmere, in colors and patterns that seemed to swim and shift whenever he looked away. Chimes and beads hung from the painted ceiling. There was a fine susurrus of music in the room, not as intrusive as a song playing in the background, but rather like the cool, welcoming ambiance of a well-traveled inn, even as it felt otherworldly and, ironically, alien. 

Rather than a desk, the angular woman with peacock-feather hair sprawled languidly on a large collection of pillows, beckoning the travelers in with sensual lightness. Caenbaehr didn’t hesitate to lay himself down across from her, as the tattooed servant brought in a low table and opulent hookah. Sollux, however, felt like he was nailed to the floor. This edged dangerously close to a pale solicitation to him, and a very casual one at that. He had no desire to pile with strange, fey people he barely knew, and the very thought that one of them might attempt some kind of… of _papping_ or the like sent shocks of tension down his spine. 

Aradia, in a display of utterly reckless cultural abandon, practically threw herself onto the pile, her robes flashing briefly in the low light. Sollux forced back thoughts of insulting her under his breath for the cross-cultural deviant she was. He reminded himself that this was neither the time nor the place to be sticking to the dogma of a planet that no longer existed. He would just have to not think about what he was doing, at least not too hard. With as small a sigh as he could manage, he lowered himself onto the pi-... mound. 

Before starting any real conversation, Lakasana lit the hookah with a gesture and took a deep draft from it. She blew a puff of lazy smoke, letting it waft around the office and settle like a cat. She passed the pipe to Caenbaehr, who did the same, expertly puffing out a small sequence of rings. Still keeping her face emotionless, Lakasana chided him with a playful “showoff.” The tailor smiled, shrugged, and passed the pipe to Aradia. 

She took a pull at the pipe, looked shocked for a brief moment, then put on her best social face once more. She exhaled slowly, letting the smoke pool on the floor below. It rose in slow, wispy streams as she passed it along to Sollux. 

The troll gave the pipe a scathing look, as though daring it to try something while he held it. Then, with a roll of his eyes that was thankfully hidden behind his glasses, he set it to his lips and inhaled. 

The sudden pull of smoke hit the back of his throat like a headlong tackle, and he couldn’t stop himself from coughing. Lakasana’s expression didn’t change, and Caenbaehr, to Sollux’s infinite gratitude, said and did nothing. The lingering aroma in his mouth and creeping up into his nose was more than pleasant enough, however, so he made a valiant second try. This time was much smoother, and he could taste - or was it smell? - cinnamon, honey, and a serene, charcoal burn that put him in mind of some kind of rich alcohol. He savored this breath, and let the smoke flow out of his nostrils like some kind of sleeping dragon. Satisfied with his own conduct, he handed the pipe over to the strange woman. 

Lakasana still showed no emotion, but she accepted the pipe with grace and took a drag. Her voice, when she spoke, was as calm as before. Her inflections were not nearly so detached as her expression, and the effect was eerie and uncanny. 

“I am pleased to see you again, Caenbaehr,” she said. “It’s been far too long.” 

“Oh yes,” agreed the other raksha. “But I was called away on business for my Lady of the Green.” 

“While I may not approve of your service to one of the Order-Forgers,” replied Lakasana, “I cannot begrudge you your sense of duty. But there will be time enough for reminiscence later. I would very much like to know who you have brought with you.” 

Caenbaehr dipped his head, approximating a bow as best he could while lounging. “It is my great pleasure to introduce to you, Feather-Weaver, Aradia Megido and Sollux Captor, travelers from beyond the scope of Creation. I have been tasked with seeing them to that land, in fact.” 

Aradia followed suit, as did Sollux. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” she said. He remained silent, knowing that his friend was far less likely to make a biting remark that was a little too audible. 

“If I may be so bold as to ask, what brings you out here?” Lakasana’s tone indicated genuine curiosity. 

“We have been given a quest to fulfill,” said Aradia after some consideration. “And we would humbly beseech your hospitality for this evening before we continue on our way.” 

“The Tailor-Man said as much,” replied Lakasana. “But it is good to hear it in your own words. I am familiar with quests of such… magnitude.” 

Aradia nodded solemnly. “Would I be correct if I said that it has something to do with your title?”

No smile graced Lakasana’s face, but her voice was warm and proud. “Clever girl. You would.” With casual grace, she drew the neckline of her dress downwards. Rather than bare, scandalous flesh, the trolls saw a curtain of feathers covering where her heart would be. “I gave my heart away some time ago,” she said. “To a young, comely mortal woman. Her child inherited it, and with it my love. And so it has been for twenty generations. In exchange, each of them gives me a feather from a bird or beast they have hunted that year. With them, I shall complete my life’s work.” 

As she replaced her decolletage, Aradia asked what she would do after that. 

“I will find another life’s work, and another love,” Lakasana answered. 

“I… see,” said Aradia, who clearly did not, despite her best efforts. 

“Few mortals truly do.” With a small, contented sigh, Lakasana put down the pipe. “It is part of what intrigues me so. What short lives they lead, with so little understanding. And yet they make things of beauty, even without our gifts.”

“Truly, a mystery of life,” Caenbaehr concurred. 

“Now then,” said Lakasana. “To business. You wish to partake of my hospitality. I ask you what you have to offer me in exchange.” 

“We can offer little in currency,” said Aradia. “And less in goods or treasure.”

“I rarely ask for such things in any case. They are more fleeting than my preferred recompense,” replied Lakasana. 

Aradia gave a somewhat strained smile. “Being the strangers that we are, I’m sure we don’t know what that might be.” 

“Nothing so transient as a mere trinket. Have you no stories of the Fair Folk? No legends of our appetites?”

A few memories floated to the surface of Aradia’s brain, but she did not believe them to be accurate in the least. When she had read stories of Alternian “Fair Folk,” they had been far less predatory than the beings she now shared a pipe with. The only common factor, in her experience, was that every one of the raksha she had met so far had left a distinctly Vriska-shaped impression. She knew Tavros wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. She hoped he would never have a chance to reach it on his own.

“I think they pale in comparison to the real thing,” she said diplomatically. 

“Flattery is but a prelude to a true bargain, my dear,” responded the raksha. “I seek things that are… of an uncommon heritage, so to speak. Curios, and mysteries. Things I have not seen before. I collect them, crystallize them, decorate my halls with the strangest ideas and most hidden thoughts.” 

Sollux narrowed his eyes. Couldn’t the woman speak plainly? Or were all raksha allergic to straightforwardness? 

Seeming to sense his confusion, Lakasana gestured languidly at the various knicknacks hanging from the ceiling. “I am a connoisseur of esoterics.” 

A nerve in Sollux’s face twitched. “Alright, no offenthe, but can you cut the bullthit? Jutht thay what you want.”

What descended upon the room was a silence that could have hushed a riot. Pins dropping had no place here; they would be escorted from the room for disorderly conduct. 

“Could you kindly repeat yourself?” asked Lakasana. 

Sollux hesitated, but only for a moment. In the battle between his fear at being thought rude, and his irritation at the rest of the world, the latter side was vastly better armed. “I thaid to cut the bullthit,” he hissed through his lisp. “Acting all mythteriouth might get you off, but it’th really thtarting to pith me off.” 

Caenbaehr had frozen stiff, with a look on his face that was as close to outright panic as either troll had ever seen. His eyes flicked back and forth between Lakasana and Sollux as he tried to process how he could talk his way through. He certainly didn’t want to fail to fulfill his promise to Gaia - a raksha (literally, in most cases) lived and died by their word. On the other hand, Sollux may have committed an error on the scale of looking down the barrel of a gun and asking the owner if he had the spine to actually fire. It would take a miracle to get them all out unharmed. 

Lakasana’s face remained as immobile as ever. “How… fascinating,” she said, flatly. Then a smile began to creep into her voice. “I confess, I haven’t encountered a voice like yours in quite some time.” 

Sollux, confused, knitted his brows. “And that’th thuppothed to mean…?”

“It is most rare,” she replied. “And quite fetching. A prize worthy of my collection.” 

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Aradia, “but are you saying you’d take his voice as payment?”

Lakasana laughed, and it sounded surprisingly genuine. “For a single night of shelter? No, it would be too great a price. I would owe you much more for his entire voice.” She looked at Sollux, eyed his throat, and returned a calculating gaze to Aradia. “For a single night, I would only take that curious little quirk of his words.” 

“... and how would that work?” asked Sollux. 

“I take your lisp,” said Lakasana simply, “and add it to my collection. The rest of your voice remains unaltered. It will be as though you never had it. I can understand if you are unwilling to part with it.” 

Sollux laughed - actually laughed, rather than one of his customary bitter chuckles - before answering. “Unwilling? Fuck no. You can have it.” He paused. A thought had just occurred to him. “Thith ithn’t going to hurt, ith it?” 

“Not in the least.” It was a gentle reassurance, too warm to be practiced. “I shall be most careful.” 

Looking at Aradia, he shrugged. “Well, why the fuck not?” He knew he was placing an awful lot of trust in this strange, alien woman, but Caenbaehr trusted her to keep her word, and she hadn’t set off the prickle on his skin that accompanied people who wanted to screw him over. Before leaving Alternia, it had been there constantly, leading Sollux to believe it was a natural reaction to someone else’s presence. His shock at not experiencing it upon meeting the humans, and even a few of the Beforan trolls, had run deep. 

With a gesture, Lakasana bade him to stand. He obliged, and she stood with him. She approached him carefully, like a tamer approaching a hurt animal, her hands extended and dress flowing like a waterfall of silk. At his nod, she gripped the sides of his face, gently but firmly, and he felt his jaw pitching open, just enough to let something escape. Then, she pulled. 

Sollux coughed slightly, felt something slip over his tongue, and then it was in her hands. If someone had asked him to draw what he thought a lisp looked like, he certainly wouldn’t have drawn anything like the shape she held. It was a jagged, spiraling thing, with few edges that were actually sharp, but it twisted at seemingly random places and in ways that put him in mind of circuitry. It was vaguely crystalline, but there was a weight to the sheen it bore that crystal did not have. The low light of the office played over the fractal surfaces, camouflaging certain angles while highlighting others. Lakasana turned it over once or twice, satisfied, then went to set it somewhere safe. 

The troll massaged his jaw, not out of discomfort, but mainly to remind himself that this was a real thing that was happening. “Well,” he said, “that felt weird as shit.” 

He paused. Yes, he had spoken those words, those s’s, quite clearly. He had felt nothing different. HIs tongue still slipped in between his fangs, just as they had before, but the sibilant sounds were no longer muted by the thick, cloying barrier. She had indeed taken his lisp, and only his lisp. It would take getting used to, he realized. 

“Your rooms will be prepared,” said Lakasana, setting the crystallized lisp on a nearby table, reverently. “In the meantime, however, I would be most glad to hear whatever stories you bring with you.” She turned back to them. “With business concluded, we can partake of whatever pleasures you find comfortable here.” 

Sollux and Aradia shared a glance. One more round of storytelling couldn’t hurt much, they decided. As they did so, Caenbaehr reassessed Sollux. Perhaps, he thought, the grouchy troll was more than just a prickly stick in the mud. 

==> Feferi: Swim

While they lacked the embrace of her home currents, there was something to be said for the waters of Creation’s Western ocean. 

Feferi found herself gliding through them with far greater ease than she had known on Alternia. Whether it was the newfound pulse of her power or a difference in the water, she couldn’t tell, but she knew that it felt marvelous. As Captain Lor led them onward, she and Eridan would swim alongside the ship or ahead, scouting the ocean waves for unseen danger. Between the two of them and their extraordinary strength, they were even capable of towing the ship behind them on ropes if they were becalmed. While they couldn’t keep it up for long, even with a favorable wind it could make a difference in their speed. 

The crew of the Red-Sea Osprey were not a particularly jolly lot, but they certainly weren’t grim or tight-fisted. Most of them had been with the captain for some time, and even the fresher faces among them carried a deep respect for the woman. Feferi could see why. Her presence was like a lighthouse on solid bedrock. They hadn’t yet encountered a serious obstacle, but just seeing how Lor went about her daily business told Feferi that she could trust the captain to keep her head in any situation. Even Eridan found himself looking up to her, despite the fact that his horns gave him enough height to be considered taller. He’d shed his ridiculous old cape in favor of a hardy sailor’s coat, one that he could shuck off at a moment’s notice if he were required to dive into the water below. His sweater, on the other hand, had been lovingly packed away. Kanaya had made it, long ago, at Feferi’s behest. It was odd to see him show such attachment, given their history… but something about it reassured her. He was not who he had been on the meteor. 

Indeed, under the leadership (and, arguably, tutelage) of Captain Lor, Eridan was flourishing. His naval skills were improving rapidly, and they had already been considerable. Seeing him with the crew, hair slicked back by salt spray and sturdy boots planted on deck, he seemed far happier than he had in sweeps. 

Jake and the others had also adopted naval dress into their outfits, for reasons of sheer practicality. Even Kanaya, as fashion-conscious as she was, had made concessions to necessity. Feferi herself hadn’t needed to change much. She had only removed her favorite scarves, diaphanous and beautiful, but equally likely to tangle in something important. They had been put away in the same safe place as Eridan’s sweater. Instead, she had acquired some bracers and long, shin-guarded sandals of a lovely black color, the same as the captain’s boarding pike. She had been told it was black jade, and they had settled on her limbs far more comfortably than armor had a right to. Even more mysteriously, the sandals did little, if anything at all, to impede her swimming. Feferi was grateful for the gift, although she had noticed a small glint in the captain’s eyes when she put the gear on. 

Their current destination was somewhere in the Skullstone Archipelago. Of those on the ship, only Lor was privy to the full details of the bargain and what had prevented Skullstone from delivering, but she had given them enough information to understand. Skullstone, it seemed, was in the middle of a buildup of ships, having received threats from the Scarlet Empire. The ruler of the Archipelago, known to most as the Silver Prince, was taking these threats seriously. Unfortunately, this left little room for a ship to transport the jade all the way to Okeanos, but the Silver Prince had graciously chartered a ship for a halfway point. There, the Red-Sea Osprey would meet that ship, take on the jade, and finish the delivery, earning some trade goods and coin as recompense, as well as extra supplies to cover going out of their way. The delays in setting out had been more than covered by Feferi and Eridan’s help, and thus the captain expected to arrive just in time to meet the other ship. 

It was with great anticipation that they arrived off the coast of a little spit of land, no more than a rest stop on the great ocean. According to the captain, some lingering magic had left the place with a supply of ever-fruitful trees, and no sailor was foolhardy enough to take such a gift for granted. The trees stayed where they were, and no one tried to abuse their power. It made for a decent supply stop, as scurvy was hated equally by all who plied the sea. 

They waited there until nightfall, and with each passing hour, the captain and her crew grew more and more restless. 

“I don’t like this,” said Captain Lor. “Skullstone may be creepy as anything and have an unhealthy attachment to their dead, but they don’t renege on a deal. The Silver Prince wants this to succeed as much as we do.” 

Eridan, Jake, and Feferi were on deck with her, sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The trolls had the advantage of better night vision than most humans, and Jake felt compelled to be there out of a sense of duty. Rose and Kanaya had retired early, taking advantage of the ship’s compact library to learn yet more about what they might face and where they might search for their friends. 

Feferi leaned against the ship’s railing, her eyes drifting up towards the stars. She tried to seek out the constellations she had seen in her dream, just as she had the past few nights. She could see shapes that looked familiar. Looking at the stars above Creation made her gut roil with homesickness, and she was about to turn away, back to the heaving waves, when there was a glimmer. 

Something in that glimmer told her something. It was like she had heard a soundless whisper, telling her that there had been a twist of fate - involuntary, abrupt, unplanned for. Unsure of what to do, she closed her eyes, took a breath, and followed her instincts. 

Her instincts led her within, to a fizzling, sparking core of energy she didn’t know she had. Had it always been there? It felt much like the sign the robed woman had entrusted her with. With a thought, she reached out to it, seeing what it could do to help her. 

It was like a switch had been flipped, and her mind’s eye showed her-

\- The four of them staying at the railing, waiting until daybreak. They would return to Okeanos empty-handed, and scarlet ships would come after them, piled with soldiers. 

\- Torches and sea-lamps scattered along the shore, searching, bobbing, trying to signal a ship that wasn’t there. A sailor in the shallows would drop, screaming, a puncture in his ankle. The venom of a sea snake, having come ashore to rest, would destroy him from the inside. But the searchers would find something after coming to his futile aid.

\- Herself, Eridan, Captain Lor, all diving underwater. They would find truth, a wreck, and a dark shape in the distance, but it would be so far away that it might not see them at all. Hooked blades waited alongside its teeth, and a trail of blood led back to it….

Feferi shook herself. She wasn’t sure what that had been, but the messages were clear enough. 

“I’m going to go have a look around,” she said, shrugging off the coat she had put on against the cold sea air. “Something must have happened to the ship.” 

“You sure about that?” asked the captain. 

“Positive. We’d… we’d have seen signals from it if it were still coming, or if it were out there, wouldn’t we?”

Lor thought this over. “You’ve got a point,” she admitted. “They wouldn’t try coming in close with it being this dark, but they’d have put up a signal light or something to let us know they weren’t late.” She turned to one of the sailors. “Let’s get some torches lit and a search party started. Maybe they got run aground.” 

Remembering the visions, Feferi quickly interjected. “No! I mean….” She coughed. “Why not let Eridan and I scout out first? That way you don’t have to split your crew up in case something happens.” 

Lor gave her a strange look, as did Eridan. Jake seemed content to continue watching the waves. Eventually, Lor shrugged. “Another fair point,” she said. “Scratch the search party. Light the lanterns; if they’re out there, they’ll see them. These two and I are going for a swim.” 

“Captain?” asked Eridan. She gave him a broad smile as she handed her coat, hat, and boots over to her first mate. 

“You don’t know everything about me, kid,” she said. Hefting her boarding pike, she clambered up onto the ship’s rail. “Ready when you are.” 

Hurriedly, Eridan took off his own coat. At the captain’s nod, all three plunged into the dark waves below. 

For a moment, Feferi feared that the captain hadn’t dived as fully as they had, but she blinked and saw that same broad smile in the twilit water. As far as the troll could tell, Lor was breathing underwater with the same grace that she and Eridan could. A thought flickered through her mind. The Chieftain had called her a God-Blood. Was Lor one as well? 

The captain motioned for the trolls to come closer. Curious, they obeyed. Lor gestured and a hiss of bubbles escaped her mouth. For a brief moment, they thought she had begun to drown, but then her hands blurred and formed a message in sign. 

_Special talents are a bonus to being Dragon-Blooded,_ the message read. Another quickly followed: _This way we can communicate underwater._

Feferi furrowed her eyebrows, and gave it a try herself. _Like this?_

Lor nodded approvingly. _Exactly. Don’t worry about me, I can breathe fine. Water is my element._

It took a moment for the trolls to realize the wordplay, and Feferi found herself feeling a new respect for the sea captain. 

_Now, let’s get searching. Follow me._

They kicked off, and Lor led them on a slow circle of the island’s shores. They swam just far enough that the thin light of the moon shone through, but not so far that they couldn’t see the slope of the sandbanks rising up above the water. The eyes of the seadwellers, designed for sight in even the darkest depths of Alternia’s oceans, could pick out many small details on the seafloor. Tiny animals - crabs, mostly - skittered over the sand. The water was remarkably clear, clearer even than Alternia’s. 

They rounded the point of a small peninsula. The waves that had pushed at them before began to feel… different. Almost as though something were altering the flow of the water nearby. 

The captain held up a hand. She scanned the darkening waters, farther from the island, and pointed towards something Feferi herself couldn’t quite make out. It was a huge shape, crushed in places and spindly in others, darker than the surroundings. Lor motioned for them to follow. 

Feferi pulled her weapon out from nowhere, ready in case something unpleasant waited. Eridan, behind her, had already drawn Ahab’s Crosshairs. Silently, cautiously, they swam towards the shape. 

Drawing closer, they could see that it was the wreckage of a sailing ship, riddled with holes and the scars of a fierce battle. A huge gash had been torn in its hull, like the titanic blade of a wrathful god had struck the ship. Feferi’s grip on her culling fork tightened. It looked like the kind of damage an Alternian beast could inflict. But such beasts stuck to the open, deep ocean, never approaching the shallows unless provoked. 

The captain approached the wreck, unafraid. She drew herself up to the prow, latching on to a stray bit of splintered wood that hadn’t been pulled off by the current. Dauntless, she plunged onward, slipping into the ship with her pike leading the way. The trolls followed. 

The inside was almost as badly ruined as the outside. Splinters drifted over sunken fragments of metal. Cannons lay strewn like scattered corpses. Strangely, however, they could see nothing of immediate value. No fallen weapons, no waterlogged supplies, not even the remnants of a sailor’s stored funds. Lor stopped and signalled to the other two. No bodies. Be careful. 

Both of the trolls nodded, sharing the same thought. The wreckage was not yet overgrown with barnacles and seaweed, and even if it had been that old, it would have still had the odd bone floating here or there. But as they continued on, plumbing the depths of the wreck, they found no sign of any human being having been aboard when the ship sank. There were scraps of clothing, but no other remains. 

Signs of battle decorated the tilted walls of the inner holds. Feferi ran her fingers over one of the many gouges in the wood, likely left by a swung weapon. The salt water and tide had already washed the blood away, probably long before they had arrived. It would only have taken a few hours after sinking. Some stains were left, higher on the walls, where they would not have been submerged as quickly. Behind each door they pulled open, or at least wider open, each room told a similar story. Trolls didn’t have hair on the backs of their necks, but if they did, Feferi would have felt them rising against the pressure of the water. Something about this was wrong, very wrong, even if she couldn’t put her finger on it. A glance at Eridan told her that he felt the same way. The captain gave no indication one way or another. 

In the deepest part of the wreck, where the cargo hold should have been, they found a splintered wall and a few loose scraps of waterlogged canvas. Conveniently, the largest scrap showed the remnants of a crest, which Lor identified as the one Skullstone used for trade shipments. All three would have sworn vehemently if they weren’t underwater. 

So, the jade had been taken. But by whom, and for what purpose? Obviously, simple raiders would have delighted in taking the cargo, but simple raiders would have left corpses - even the most careful of slave-takers wouldn’t have been able to avoid casualties completely. Especially in a battle as pitched and fierce as the clues pointed to. Had the bodies been dumped elsewhere, then the ship left to drift? But even then, there would have been traces left in the holds….

Using the admittedly limited vocabulary of sign language, the trio discussed these thoughts. Midway through a sentence, Lor stopped dead. 

_We need to go,_ she signalled. _Now._

Feferi and Eridan shared a glance. Something told them not to argue. They only stopped long enough for the captain to retrieve a small object from the sunken deck.

Resurfacing and dragging themselves back aboard ship, Feferi took the opportunity to ask what had been so urgent. 

Shaking water off of herself, Lor replied, “I recognized a few signs. No corpses. Deep gashes in the walls. Hull torn open. This wasn’t an attack from Coral pirates, a Realm ship, or a mutiny. But the thing that put it all together for me was this.” She held up a large, hooped earring made of some kind of odd bone. A tiny bit of greenish gore clung to it still. “I know the design.” 

Some of the crew, seeing the item, swore. Others began to pray. Feferi and Eridan both awaited further explanation, eyebrows raised. 

“We have a problem,” said the captain. “Your jade was taken by Lintha.” 

“If you don’t mind my askin’, captain,” said Eridan, “what in the everlovin’ _fuck_ is a Lintha?”

Grim-faced, Lor turned the trinket over in her hands. “Demon-bloods. Cannibals. Raiders from the southern seas. Most captains roll over and surrender when they see Lintha colors. They don’t need wind - they have infernal sea monsters to pull their ships. And if we want to get that jade back, we need to go hunt down a whole crew of them.” 

==> John: Talk to Karkat

The two of them had graciously been allowed a private room in the back of the general store to converse. None of the townsfolk seemed to wither appropriately under Karkat’s baleful stare, perhaps buoyed by John’s oblivious enthusiasm. Even now, Karkat noted, the human had that same goofy grin on his face. It had, perhaps, grown by a few molars since he had been interrupted. The thought infuriated him.

The moment the door closed, leaving just the two of them alone in the room, John swept Karkat up into an enormous hug. 

“Oh my GOD I am so glad to see you!” he said, ignoring the fact that Karkat was a) technically shirtless, and b) wriggling like a trapped salmon. How dare this human, this lowly creature, touch a Green Sun Prince? The troll felt a few vertebrae pop. Strangely, he felt slightly better as John set him down. “Where’s everyone else?”

Karkat’s brewing tirade stopped short. Everyone else? He’d… had he forgotten? 

“I….” he started, then swallowed. Something in the back of his mind felt like it had been swaddled in cotton. “They’re not with you?” 

John shook his head, looking as sorrowful as Karkat had ever seen him. “No. It’s just me and Roxy. She’s back in Whitewall right now. Oh, right, that’s a city that’s nearby.” He puffed his chest out a bit. “I’m actually working for them!” 

Karkat was only halfway paying attention. He slumped onto a nearby chair, kneading his forehead. His chest ached. It was like a sliver of something had settled in it, and he was only feeling it now. There was a hissing from inside his head. At least, he thought it was inside his head. 

John paused and looked at him askance, having noticed his friend’s apparent distress. “Karkat? Is everything okay?” He looked over the troll. “Um, now that I think about it, I should probably get you a blanket or something, huh? I mean, the green fire trick was cool and all but you’re not really dressed for up here.” 

When Karkat replied, his voice was thicker than molasses. “John,” he croaked, “please. Just. Stop. I’m sorry. I don’t…. Something’s wrong.” 

The human had the decency to look worried, and not to immediately sweep the troll up in another embrace in an attempt to heal through affection. He didn’t say anything (which improved Karkat’s estimation of him - were it charted, it would resemble a rollercoaster), but merely let Karkat gather his thoughts. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Karkat finally admitted, after some thinking. John gave him a half-smile. 

“I don’t really know much myself,” he said. 

“Holy shit,” Karkat mutttered. “Alert the media. John Egbert admits he doesn’t know things. Finally, he pulls his head out of his nook and joins the rest of us in being clueless.” The troll shook his head slowly and punched the table. “Dammit, I’m not supposed to be clueless anymore. For a little while there, everything felt so… so clear, but….” 

“Now it’s all muddled? Like you knew what you had to do but then everything got back in the way?”

“... something like that.” Karkat growled in frustration. “Fuck.” 

John shrugged. “Well, I guess we just… swap stories then? See what we do know and then try to figure something out from there.”

Karkat nodded, thinking. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a start. You go first. I need to figure something out before I take my turn.” 

Happily, John obliged. Karkat only needed to pay attention to half of what he said, since the story involved a lot of rambling segues and half-explanations. It didn’t matter. He’d ask for clarification later, if it became necessary. What mattered at the moment was that hissing in his head, and where it was coming from. It felt familiar. 

Almost as if bidden by the search through memory, a face loomed in his mind. It was the hideous creature that had met him, had made the offer. It frowned at him, gnashing its teeth in frustration. Karkat glared back, wondering how in the hell it was still there. 

_I am now your Coadjutor,_ it answered. _And you, Princeling, are falling from your path._

Like fuck he was, Karkat thought. Green, lean, and mean had no right to tell him what to do. 

_You were Chosen for the purposes of the Yozi, said the Coadjutor. To conquer Creation and make it turn away from the traitor Sun! And this… this arrogant child, this would-be obstacle, thinks you are lesser still than he is!_

Karkat doubted that very much. Trying to imagine Egbert considering himself superior to anyone was like trying to imagine Glb’golyb impersonating Troll Will Smith. Sure, it was theoretically possible, but only in the most unlikely of cartoonish caricatures. 

_Fool,_ hissed the Coadjutor, _your doubt will undermine you and let him usurp you. Let me remind you what you stand to lose!_

The demon brought up a ram of mental force, trying to bring Karkat back under its direct influence. Earlier, it had been easy - a matter of letting the poor no-longer-mortal feel the drunken rush of power. With the presence of the human and his uncanny ability to defuse what should have been a grand, imperious rage, more drastic measures were needed. Even the guilt of the long-ago former life of this Exaltation, and the boy’s outrage at the betrayal of the Viziers, were no match for the sheer dumb friendliness of John Egbert. 

Unfortunately for the demon, it was up against a wall of pure, irritated, stubborn Karkat. 

Karkat kneaded his eyebrows as the demon let out a strangled mental scream, its coercion faltering under the tide of his will. He had been granted power, and he was going to use it, alright. 

John gave him an odd look. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he muttered back, then he straightened up. “Okay, let me see if I got this right: you got a gift of power from some giant glowing four-armed asshole who said that all of us would need you. Now you have another asshole who got a similar gift from that asshole telling you what to do and teaching you how to use it. You’re here because he said it would be good practice. But you have to stay incognito. The rest of this world, wherever it is we wound the fuck up in, is mostly ruled by some missing Empress and her gaggle of dragon-fuckers that think she’s the holiest thing to ever breathe air. You don’t know where anyone else is, but the four-armed asshole told you that you’d find them all in the south eventually.”

John counted it all off on his fingers, going through a mental checklist as he did so. “Yeah, that about covers it.” 

“Okay,” replied Karkat, “now sit down, shut up, and take notes, because I’m about to blow your tiny mind.” 

“Take notes with what?”

“You don’t have your phone?”

John shook his head. Karkat thought for a moment and realized that even if he’d kept his own, Light probably wouldn’t have recognized it and thus tossed it down the demon garbage disposal along with his old clothes. He made a mental note to set her hair on fire as revenge. 

“Alright, whatever. Just listen, and listen good.” 

John sat back in his chair, attentive. 

“I woke up in a blasted hellscape that made Alternia look like a grassy meadow, okay? I didn’t see anyone else, and then this demon thing told me I’d die if I didn’t accept a pact with it. Something about the toxic breath of Malfeas. I don’t remember, and I don’t care. It’s not important.” He held up a hand, forestalling John’s obvious question. “No. I am not telling you why I trusted a fucking demon. Like I said, it’s not important. What is important is that after that, I got filled in on a lot of things.

“We’re called Exalted, John. Chosen by the gods. Or what predated the gods, in my case. And we used to _rule every inch of Creation_. You understand? We were the kings of literally everything. Well, not us exactly. The people who used to have these Exaltations. They pass down from person to person. It’s like if God Tier wasn’t shitty and didn’t require dying on a quest bed. And it all ended when we were betrayed.” 

“Wait, what?” 

Karkat nodded, a touch smugly. “That’s right. Some sketchass arachnofondlers who were supposed to be our advisors backstabbed the fuck out of us. The dragon-fuckers who’re the bosses now? They were the catspaws for them. Did all the dirty work while the seers masterminded everything. We were murdered at a feast. At a fucking party!” 

John’s expression slowly went from confused to dark and stormy as Karkat carried on. 

“I don’t know how, but _somehow_ they locked up what was left over, until my bosses - the Yozis - busted the Exaltations out of something called a Jade Prison. Now they want us to take it all back!” 

Deep in thought, John scratched his head. Slowly, he asked a question: “Who are the Yozis?”

Karkat spluttered. “You mean four-arm-guy didn’t tell you? Did he tell you _anything_ useful?”

John merely shrugged. 

“Well fuck me with a rusty culling fork then.” The troll massaged his forehead, trying to hold off a brewing headache. “Alright, they created everything. Including the gods that currently rule Creation. Sort of. There’s a bureaucracy, it’s complicated.” He waved a hand dismissively. 

“Okay… then where are they now?” 

Karkat’s response was automatic. “Imprisoned.” 

“... imprisoned by what?”

“I… they’re just imprisoned, okay?” 

John fixed him with a stare. It was an Egbert stare, with absolutely no malice in it, but it still held a certain kind of force. “Karkat, if you don’t know, that might actually be important.” 

Briefly, the outrage boiled in Karkat’s veins again. How dare this lowly being presume to tell him what was and was not important? But once again, it met a wall of Karkat stubbornness, spurred by the harsh master that was experience in Sburb. 

“Dammit, I hate when you’re right,” he muttered. “Alright, fine, I’ll try and find out. But first we need to find everyone else. I have an idea, but I’m not sure if it can work.” Already, his mind was calculating the necessary components and time to construct devices. His own limited knowledge of coding availed him little, but if he could somehow cobble together a gadget or two that he could link….

John nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So… next question. How are you going to get back here?” 

“I have my ways.” Karkat tossed the key he’d been given and caught it again. “Next time I should hopefully have some transport. And a way to signal you. Of course, if you see a column of green fire, that’s probably me.” 

“You’re the only one I know who can do that now,” John conceded with a chuckle. “Actually, I was wondering about that. Is that why you can walk around in the snow half-naked?” 

Karkat stopped, his brain thrown off track. The scratching of a record needle could practically be heard in the dead silence. He glanced down at his outfit. Then he looked back at John. The human had been bundled up in thick leathers and a marvelously warm-looking coat, lined with soft fur. The only trace of his God-Tier clothing was the blue hood, trailing behind like the ridiculous windsock that Karkat remembered. 

He gave up on trying to explain things to John. “Yes,” he said simply. He didn’t want to deal with having to further explain the mechanics of the burning hell-flames within him that he kept alight by sheer anger alone. He also didn’t want to deal with trying to explain Malfean fashion.

“Huh. Cool,” said John. “Are you going to stay? It’s not exactly five-star restaurants out here, but there’s bread and cheese and they have this really tasty fermented yogurt thing they do for a drink. I didn’t think I’d like it, but it’s actually great for keeping you warm at night.” 

“I can’t. I’m expected back.” This was true, and Karkat was reasonably sure that Malfeas had better options for dinner than fermented yogurt. 

John shrugged apologetically. “Okay. That’s too bad. Roxy and I haven’t exactly made a lot of friends up here.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, John, don’t try to get me to pity you,” Karkat snarled half-heartedly. “We’ve established that I have no room in my heart for your human version of it.” 

In return, John punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Lighten up, man,” he said. “I’m just saying, this may be our last chance to really talk for a while.” 

Karkat made a show of rolling his eyes. “Alright, whatever. But if you get killed when my bosses come looking for me, you only have yourself to blame.”

They spent hours there, reminiscing and occasionally volleying ideas back and forth. John resolved to get some maps of Creation. Karkat, for his part, kept working on his idea in the back of his mind. By the time they were done and he really did have to go, he already had some suspicions about how to accomplish it. 

John bade him a fond farewell, and when he returned to the Brass Spire, he found Light commanding a set of neomah to set the table. 

He raised an eyebrow. 

Light smirked. “I made dinner tonight,” she said. “You must be ravenous by this point.” 

Before he could make a disparaging remark, his stomach growled. Loudly. Like a lion. 

Light’s smirk grew. 

Karkat fixed her with a baleful stare. “So what horrible abominations are you foisting upon me then?”

Wordlessly, Light clapped and the neomah began to bring out dishes. The food they carried bore a suspicious resemblance to bread, cheese, and vats of what smelled like fermented yogurt. 

“Never got much in the way of foreign food before I got… promoted,” she said, sitting. “So when I got here, I said to myself that I could fuck tradition and have whatever I wanted. Then I learned how to make this stuff. Ate the brain of some guy from up north. I heard the yogurt thing was pretty good.” 

Slowly, Karkat lowered his head and cradled it in his hands. 

==> Roxy: Return 

By the time she had finished her project and gotten back on the road, it was shortly before dusk. Roxy stared at the banner as she carried it reverently down the path. She didn’t know how to feel. Some part of her was satisfied. She had done an admirable job, especially for someone as clumsy with a needle and thread as she was. But there was also a part of her that felt empty, longing, like there was yet more to be done. She bundled her coat closer, though the winds were not yet wintry and bitter. 

She carefully kept her gaze fixed on the path ahead, not looking at the lantern-posts, nor at the edges of the road. She only looked forward, to make sure she wouldn’t trip, and to find the place she had found the banner before. 

The sun had nearly set by the time she reached the edge of the shadowland. Already she could see wispy forms waiting by the side of the road. The post that had held the cloth stood like a sentinel of unquestionable loyalty. As she drew closer, Roxy could see the wisps become more solid, more defined, until an honor guard of pale, wasted forms watched her bring the repaired banner to its resting place. 

In the silence only possible when surrounded by the dead, Roxy hung the banner back up. She smoothed out a corner - one last act of care before relinquishing it to the elements - and stood back. Not knowing quite what else to do, she bowed to the ghosts present. They returned it, as one. 

After a moment of respectful silence, Roxy realized that nothing needed to be said. Smiling, she turned to walk back up the road. She bade the ghosts a farewell with a simple wave of her hand. Something in her felt more at peace, more right, than it ever had. She hadn’t realized that feeling had been there until recently. 

It took her five minutes of walking to realize that there was someone behind her. 

She spun, expecting to see perhaps one of the ghosts following her. Or, though it was unlikely at this hour, a traveler on their way to Whitewall. Instead, she saw what looked like a young man, corpse-pale but decidedly more solid than the spirits from the Fell. He was dressed in light furs, clearly meant for mobility over warmth. Even his haircut - sleek and short - gave the feeling of speed. Blood-red eyes watched her, calculating, as she watched him. 

A moment passed. Neither moved. Roxy felt the urge to clench her fists, to put up a fighting stance, but she repressed it. He appeared to be completely unarmed. His features were warlike in a way that she hadn’t seen in Whitewall, bearing traces of what might have been weathering from sun and rain. Whoever this mysterious stranger was, he was not native to the north. 

Awkwardly, the stranger cleared his throat. “Ah… sorry,” he said, in a voice that was reedy despite his apparent adulthood. “I just… I noticed you taking the banner last time you were here. I had to find out what you’d do with it. And if you were trustworthy.”

At her confused silence, he continued. “You can call me Silent Memory’s Whisper. Or Whisper for short, I guess. Most people do. And on behalf of the man - er, ghost, I suppose - I work for, I have what you might call a proposal.” 

Though her suspicions were not yet completely allayed, Roxy listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooooly crap I am way overdue on this. But here it is! 
> 
> Reshiava is a challenging character to write for, because she has such a different perspective on things. It's not necessarily about knowing her character - it's rather simple to get - but the fact that her viewpoint has to have much less detail due to how little she actually considers important. Sometimes it's hard to write a character who's more like a force of nature than anything. 
> 
> Fun fact: I actually rolled Stamina + Resistance for Aradia and Sollux here taking a puff on the pipe. Aradia has a much better dice pool than Sol does for this. 
> 
> As for Sollux's lisp, I actually did this in response to some criticism from an early beta reader. I do like Sol's lisp, but it is a pain in the ass to write and to read. So I compromised. And it works, given the bizarro logic of the Fair Folk. 
> 
> Feferi uses a Charm for the first time! And experiences some neat underwater stuff too! The hand signs thing is also a Charm, but a Dragon-Blooded one. It's "Speech Without Words." Useful little thing! Not explicitly there for underwater communication (Linguistics is an Air Aspect ability) but certainly adaptable to the purpose. 
> 
> In retrospect, the section with John and Karkat might be a little confusing, but I decided that it was a confusion that sort of worked. Karkles is figuring out some very... pertinent things. In between being done with John's shit and being done with Light's shit, of course. I know I used him for a punchline twice in a row, but let's be honest: Karkat is one of the funniest characters for the simple reason that he reacts in hilarity. 
> 
> Aaaaand of course I can't leave a chapter without a cliffhanger! Silent Memory's Whisper was an NPC I cooked up for a campaign, didn't get to use him much. The core of his character is the same, though. You'll find out more soon enough!


End file.
